Need for Speed
by TheEquestrianidiot 2.0
Summary: Hamato Donatello was one of the best mechanics around. And with the help of his three brothers, he's also one of the best street racers. But when a race goes wrong, he's jailed for a murder he didn't commit. Fresh out of prison, he reacquires the fastest car his workshop ever built, and enters a secretive, extremely high-stakes race. His purpose: Revenge on the man who framed him.
1. Chapter 1

_MOUNT KISCO, NY_

* * *

The cops were waiting for them this time.

When they were tipped that yet another illegal street race was about to take place in their sleepy little town, the Mount Kisco police had decided to go on the offensive.

The night watch commander had assembled three patrol squad cars whose sole duty would be to stop the alleged race. To this end, he'd equipped them with some extraordinary tools: three new highly accurate radar guns, three extra sets of walkie-talkies, and, borrowed from the New York State Police, a spike strip.

This device was composed of a collection of metal spikes, two inches long and pointing upward, attached to a rigid plastic strip. The idea was to throw the strip in front of any car that needed to be stopped and allow it to puncture the car's tires, grinding the lawbreakers to a halt.

It seemed like a drastic measure, but the police feltit had come to this. There was a culture of illegal street racing in Mount Kisco; most of the participants were local teenagers or young men in their twenties, and all were well-known to the police.

But no arrest could stick without catching one of the perpetrators in the act. Truth was, the street racers were all extremely skilled drivers and absolutely fearless. Their cars were highly modified with illegal equipment that made them go light-years faster than a normal passenger vehicle. In the past, the street racers had made short work of ditching any police cars that took up their pursuit. Tonight, the Mount Kisco PD hoped to turn the tables.

The three extra squad cars were positioned along the illegal race's suspected route.

One cruiser was hidden in an alley in the downtown business district. Another was near the cemetery along Lexington Avenue, and the third was stationed next to the statue of Chief Kisco at the intersection of Routes 133 and 117.

The tipster had claimed the race would start at midnight. But it was at 11:55 p.m., five minutes early, that three cars came blazing into town.

They were a 1968 Gran Torino, a 1969 Camaro, and a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. They went by the first squad car so fast and so unexpectedly, the officer behind the wheel couldn't get his engine started quick enough. The trio of racers was gone before he even could get his squad car in gear. Forced to call ahead to the second squad ear, the policeman discovered his walkie-talkie was filled with static and interference. The same was true for his squad car's dashboard radio. As a result, he couldn't hear his colleague and his colleague couldn't hear him. It was almost as if someone was jamming their communications.

No pursuit was possible, because the first police car couldn't confirm where the three speeders had gone. The officer finally used his cell phone to call ahead to the second cruiser, which was lying in wait near the Lexington Avenue. But the three racers had already rocketed by this location as well—and the second squad car's new radar gun failed to register a thing. The three cars were suddenly there, going by at more than 100 mph, and like stealthy phantoms, like foured-wheeled ninjas, were just as suddenly gone. The second cop had seen the three cars only in a blur, but still he knew they were breaking a long list of laws: speeding, going down one-way streets, reckless driving, driving without license plates, and, most probably, carrying illegal jamming equipment. All the second policeman could do was head off in the same direction in which the three fast cars had disappeared. But as soon as he pulled out of his hiding spot, he nearly collided with the first squad car, which had reached his position at almost the same moment.

All this time both officers had been frantically trying to contact their colleague in the third squad car to tell him the racers were probably heading in his direction and to drop the spike strip. But the interference on their radios continued unabated and communication seemed impossible. As it turned out, the cop in squad car number three had heard the trio of racers approaching. The highly modified cars made a lot of noise when their engines were at full throttle. At that point he'd jumped out of his car and flung the spike strip across Route 117 right near the Chief Kisco statue. Then he'd retreated behind his cruiser, not knowing what to expect once the speeding cars hit the spikes.

But that didn't happen.

Showing off their incredible driving skills, the three drivers simply avoided the spike strip by going up and over the curb and driving along the road's shoulder until they were past the tire-popping device. They did this while going in excess of 100 mph. After that, the road straightened out and the three cars simply upshifted to their highest gear and were gone. It was only later that the Mount Kisco police realized their tip had come from one of the racers themselves. Being chased by the police was part of the allure of illegal street racing.

* * *

Mount Kisco was located in upstate New York, about ten miles east of the Hudson River, and just a half hour north of New York City. With a population of ten thousand, the town was known as a bedroom community for high-price executives who worked in Manhattan, as well as a haven for the stupid rich. Secluded places like Guard Hill, Mount Kisco Chase, and Glassbury Court had homes so extravagant that only the fabulously wealthy could afford them. The downtown business district was made up mostly of designer boutiques, posh clothing stores, foofy coffee shops, and expensive restaurants. And at close to two hundred acres, the Mount Kisco Country Club took up nearly one tenth of the town.

But Mount Kisco had a poor section, too. The Lexington Avenue neighborhood on the west side was home to families living below the poverty line. Most townies avoided the area, though this was where drugs could be bought. Local high school kids—pupils of nearby John Jay Prep school—SUNY students, and even some residents from the affluent east side were known to visit Lex Ave on occasion. Weed was especially easy to obtain there, usually at reasonable prices.

Still, the town's crime rate was very low. Since the police had so little to do, they frequently harassed the local teenagers at their hangouts, like the Applebee's on Main Street. And they especially enjoyed busting up underage drinking parties at Pride Rock and under the town's water tower.

Stopping the rash of illegal street racing, however, was still a work in progress.

* * *

There was an auto repair garage just north of downtown called Hamato Motors. It was a well-known place, having been in business tor forty years.

It was a large, square, open building, with a washed stone facade, many windows, and a rather grand covered entrance reminiscent of a hotel. Signs on the outside advertised body work and tune-ups. There were four bay doors, plus room for many cars out front and along the sides.

On this day, a handful of cars were parked outside, all with various ailments, waiting to be serviced. Inside, 2004 Taurus was on the main lift, getting its brakes redone. In the next bay over, a 2007 Neon was awaiting its inspection sticker. Next to the Neon, a classic 1970 Chevron B16, stripped of chrome and glass and covered in primer gray, was about to go into the paint booth for its final coat.

The garage was a highly organized place, with hundreds of car parts neatly sorted on shelves and lulls. Canisters of premium auto paint dominated one corner. The mechanics at Hamato Motors didn't just fix cars. They also painted them, restored them, and, if it was the right set of wheels, transformed them into street racers, packed with illegal equipment that could make them go very fast. The employees of Hamsto Motors were well-known to the police, too.

* * *

Mount Kisco had a different kind of economy when the garage first opened in 1974. Back then, most people were making a good wage, and many families had or more cars, When they needed an oil change, or an engine tune-up, or a dent pounded out, many of them came to Hamato's, and the business thrived. But the money streams had changed in more recent years. As the town's rich got richer, they bought BMWs, Benzs, and Bentleys, and wound up bringing them to their dealers for service. Meanwhile, the poor got poorer and found they had to change their own oil or tune up their cars themselves—and forget about fixing the dents. Caught in the middle, Hamoto Motors had suffered, especially lately. Even the customizing work was tailing off these days. This morning, even though five cars were waiting to get in, there were a dozen empty customer parking spots outside, and two of the bays were vacant. Business could have been better.

Photographs covered one wall inside the garage. They showed four happy children in various stages of growing up, always with cars around them. At four years old, they were smiling and posing in bumper cars at a local carnival. At eight, they were photographed racing go-carts wearing huge grins. By ten, the boys were in helmets, racing shifter cars. In these photos they could be seen holding all kinds of racing trophies, always smiling, always with their proud parents standing nearby. But after that, the photos told another story. On reaching eleven or so, the boy's mother was suddenly absent from the photos—and the boys were never photographed smiling again. They and their father appeared in half a dozen more shots, taken over the next ten years inside the garage while they were repairing cars, all stone-faced and lost in their work. Then the photographs stopped altogether.

Four young men were inside the garage today; three of them were working. One was Hamato Raphel. He was a relatively small man, and the possessor of a big personality. Raphael was the garage's "gasser," or paint mechanic. His work was considered by all to be exceptional. He'd been discharged recently from the army. While he'd originally joined the service to get out of Mount Kisco, where he went instead was Iraq and Afghanistan, as part of a helicopter ground crew. He'd seen how the muffler shops in Fallujah had been turned into bomb making factories and how many Afghan farmers had their own working tanks, needed to keep thieves away from their poppy fields.

Very little of his time in the army had been cool or exciting, and he'd seen enough death and destruction to last several lifetimes. When he returned home after four years and three combat tours, he vowed never to leave Mount Kisco again.

But he'd also brought home with him a hand full of stories about his time in the Sandbox. As he was always known for a vivid imagination, Raph's brothers took these tales with a grain of salt. Just Raph being Raph.

In the next bay, making adjustments to the front suspension of the 1967 custom-built Chevy Impala, were the shop's chief mechanic's, Hamato Leonardo and Casey Jones. Casey was the third youngest of the group, around twenty-five. He was a moderately sized man guy, large arms and chest, a fanatic in the weight room. With a light face and dark eyes, he, more often than not, had a toothpick hanging from his lips. Having started sweeping up the place at the age of seven, he'd never really grew out of his love for cars. He'd learned the mechanic's trade from the business's founder and turned out to one of the best grease monkeys in Westchester County.

Leonardo was the opposite of Casey. He was small, pale, with dark black, almost blue hair and sad features. He twenty-seven and was the second one of the four in the room who'd attended college. Although he'd earned a business and finance degree at a nearby SUNY campus, he hated office life and never truly pursued a professional career.

The day after getting his sheep skin, he was back at Hamato's, changing oil and installing shock absorbers. The fourth young man was Hamato Michaelangelo. Barely five foot four was the smallest, and the youngest of the Hamato clan.

Fair-skinned with a James Dean haircut, he was a powerhouse in his own way. As the little brother of the Hamato Motors crew, he was the second most knowledgeable when it came to cars and racing, legal or otherwise. He was also an excellent driver and owned a very sweet 1969 Chevy Camaro that he'd reconditioned from the wheels up, practically by himself.

* * *

Mikey was rarely seen without his iPad, and today was no different. It was 2:00 p.m. and his favorite streaming video show was coming on. It was called _Underground Racing_. It was hosted by a very nutty woman simply named Vinyl Scratch. The show was passionately devoted to the street-racing culture. Souped-up cars competing against each other on city streets and public highways at speeds frequently in excess of 150 mph. This was not drag racing run on a track and sanctioned by a thick rule book. This was about going as fast as you could go on an open road, with powerful, but illegally modified cars, sometimes for money, but mostly for the adrenaline rush, which was always substantial.

Though the modern version of the sport began in Japan, with enthusiasts racing each other on curving mountain roads, its history in the United States went back much farther. Back in the days of Prohibition, bootleggers jacked up the power of their car engines so they could shake off any pursuing law enforcement. Once booze was legal again, the bootleggers took to racing each other in their modified cars, and American street racing was born. These days, technology and the right mechanic could take a typical consumer automobile and double, or even triple, its engine's output to 500 horsepower or more. But that was just the beginning.

Ultra-expensive vehicles built especially for this sort of thing—Lamborghinis, Ferraris, and Bugattis—could easily double that figure. With these cars, speeds of 200 mph or more were not unheard-of, making them blurs to people keeping to the speed limit on interstates or simply driving on city streets. The "unapproachable" speed, the holy grail of street racing, was somewhere around 250 mph. That would be traveling one mile every fifteen seconds. Like breaking the sound barrier in a jet fighter, such velocity in a car could be exhilarating. But it took only one wrong move, and the person behind the wheel would, more often than not, wind up dead.

Vinyl was the perfect host for the Underground Racing program There was a great mystique about her. She broadcast the show from a secret location, known only to her. Her viewers could see she was in a glass booth, with a microphone and camera in front of her—but little else.

The only clue to her whereabouts was the sound of seagulls her follouers could hear cawing in the background, off camera. Vinyl was a real woman of mystery—mystery and a bad heart. It was rumored that she'd had a dalliance as a professional race car driver but her heart stopped like a watch one day, so she quit. Legend also had it that she'd sponsored a few Formula I teams for races at top venues like Monte Carlo. But even here she was said to be highly secretive, always campaigning under assumed names. Beyond that, very little was known about her.

Vinyl's streaming podcast was private, by invitation only, and she was very discriminating about whom she invited to her party, Still, she had a huge, if discreet, following. Michaelanglo was one of her biggest fans.

"Man, she's really on fire today," Mikey said now, turning up I Pad's volume so the others in the garage could hear.

Suddenly, Vinyl's voice was bouncing off the bay walls. "Caller, hey caller, listen!" she was barking, fast-talking as always. "Did you just call me the Oracle of Delphi? The De Leon is my race and it's beautiful! And you can bet that crack in your ass that I am the Oracle of Delphi when it comes to who gets invited to race De Leon and who doesn't! So sew that crack cut you're talking out of your ass and I'm not listening."

The four members of the Hamato team laughed. Vinyl was the Howard Stern of the underground racing world. And she was one seriously funny chick.

"By the way, I have some local results," Vinyl's voice crackled again, "The Flyin' Hawaiian just took down Steve Heavy Chevy in the Arizona desert. And the word is, it wasn't very pretty. Now remember that rivalry isn't over yet, you cretins. But the Flyin' Hawaiian did just get closer to an invitation to this year's De Leon as the wildcard. What's a cretin, you ask? If you weren't such cretins you'd know what a cretin is! De Leon is in one week, motorheads, so keep the need! Keep the motherfucking need for speed!"

The De Leon was the Super Bowl of underground racing. While the entrants were always hand-picked by Vinyl herself, the participating cars were never less than the multimillion-dollar Lamborghinis, Bugattis, McLarens, and Saleens. The race was held in a different place every year, the location kept a closely guarded secret until shortly before it began. It was almost always a brutal, cut- throat competition whose winner, if there was one left standing, got to keep all of the expensive cars that managed to cross the finish line. The highly illegal race was always the bane of whatever law enforcement agency whose jurisdiction it happened to fall under, and street racing fans counted the days before the next De Leon would be run.

The Hamato Motors mechanics stayed entranced by the show even as they continued to work. All except Casey.

As he looked through the glass doors of the garage, something outside caught his attention.

A sixtyish-year-old man in a business suit was to Leo's second youngest brother, Hamato Donatello. Donatello was in his early twenties now, tough-looking but handsome and in good shape.

But right now, Casey sensed he had the weight the world on his shoulders. Casey moved closer to the open bay doorway and tried to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"I loved your father," he heard the older man telling Donnie. "He was a customer of our bank for thirty years, so this is very hard for me. But you're six months behind on the mortgage for this place and there's nothing more I can do to help you out. We'll have to foreclose on you if you can't come up with the payment next week."

Donnie didn't reply. He just nodded and awkwardly shook hands with the man.

Then he watched in silence as the man got in his car and drove away. As soon as Donnie walked back into the garage, he realized Casey had been watching the conversation, and probably listening in as well.

"Who was that guy?" Casey asked him.

"Just an old customer of my dad's." Donnie replied quitely.

"I didn't recognize him." Casey said.

"He may bring his car in next week." Donnie added.

"Oh, yeah? What's wrong with it?" Casey asked.

Donnie took a moment, and then replied a little testily, "Well, it's our job to find out, right?"

Casey studied his friend for a moment. Donnie's father was the reason Casey was in this business. He was the one who'd hired him as a kid to sweep the garage, and in the process taught him just about everything there was to know about what made cars run—and run fast.

"Is your mind on tonight's race?" Casey asked Donnie.

Donnie just shrugged.

"Well, I want to get there early," Casey continued. "Five cars are racing—so that means the pot will be like. . . . "

"Like five grand?" Donnie said, finishing the sentence for him, and then adding a bit soberly, "Believe me, I know."

It was Donnie's car on the lift in the garage's first bay. Built in 1967, the pitch black Chevrolet Impala was a somewhat ordinary vehicle at its inception, though, like Donnie, many enthusiasts had embraced it as a platform for competing either legally or on the streets.

Donnie's Impala was well-known to street racing fans in upstate New York and indeed throughout the country. He'd installed a rebuilt 5.4 liter aluminum gig block engine in it with fuel injection and a supercharger. Huge headers, exhaust pipes, and twin mufflers were added to the package, along with a six-speed manual transmission and an especially heavy-duty clutch.

The car sat on four radial drag-racing tires, mounted on old school mag wheels, and had pitch black acrylic paint covering its body with dark purple pinstripes added tastefully along the sides. The paint scheme and the striping made the car both unusual and elegant, but most important, it was fast. Stripped of any needless or extra weight, it could go from zero to 60 mph in under six seconds, astonishing for such an ordinary design. What's more, its suspension had been improved through the skills of Leo and Casey, so that it cornered like a dream, and was also excellent at drifting—that manner of taking a turn not in the usual way, but by oversteering So that all four wheels temporarily lost traction, allowing the car to go into a turn sideways in a kind of high speed controlled skid. In the world of underground racing, a driver's talent at drifting spoke volumes about the driver himself. Donnie was one of the best in the country at it.

That was one of the reasons Donnie was so well-known in the street racing community. All those years, from crash 'em cars to present, he had put to good use. He had an instinct about driving, almost a sixth sense. When he started his car, he felt it become part of him, like some fighter pilots say when they climb into their airplanes.

And he'd always raced for fun. But now, after the visit from the man from the bank, knew he might have to start for something more.


	2. Chapter 2

It was Saturday night. Traditionally, many of Mount Kisco's teenagers would cop some beer and head for Pride Rock for a drinking party.

But something else was going on tonight. Something somewhat secret. And it was happening at the Mount Kisco Drive-in Theater.

The sign at the drive-in entrance was slightly misleading. It announced a car show, a ten-dollar entry fee, a BBQ, and some raffles. But something else was going to happen here. Something the cops hadn't been tipped about. People had started gathering inside the drive-in shortly after dark. Though scenes from _Bullitt,_ one of the best car chase films ever made, were being projected on the drive-in's huge screen, the crowd wasn't on hand to watch movies either.

They were there to see a real street race.

Or at least the beginning of one.

* * *

The drive-in's parking lot was jammed with spectators by the time Donnie arrived.

It was close to 11:00 p.m. and there was drunken county fair atmosphere around the place. With everyone in good spirits, the crowd gladly parted to allow his Impala to get through.

Inside his highly customized car, Donnie and his crew were tuned in to Vinyl Scratch's show on Mikey's iPad. They were about to get a big surprise.

The underground host had a caller on the line.

"Word is out that the De Leon is going to be held in New Hampshire this year," the caller said. "Is that true, Vinyl?"

"You'll never know," Vinyl snapped back at him. "Because you'd just tip off the cops—and no one wants that. No one likes a snitch! Am I right?"

The Impala erupted in cheers.

"Oh! And, by the way," Vinyl continued, "The results from Austin just came in. Mr. X has posted a win."

Vinyl took another caller. This one asked, "Why does Mr. X have a shot at the De Leon and I don't?"

Vinyl erupted. "Because Mr.X's McLaren is worth one point two million, can do 240, and he can drive!" she shouted. "And you and your rolling bucket of bolts can't! The Oracle has spoken!"

More cheers from the Hamato crew.

Vinyl paused a moment, then went on. "But, you know," she said, her voice unusually subdued. "Tonight I've got got my nose open on Mount Kisco, New York."

This perked up the ears of everyone in the Impala.

"You're shitin' me," Raph breathed. "Did she just say Mount Kisco, New York?"

The others shushed him as Vinyl continued.

"I'm interested in that one-horse town tonight because Donatello Hamato and Tyler Rockwell are gonna duke it out in a field of five cars," Vinyl declared. "That's a real scrappy circuit up there, and from what I hear, Donnie H is a hell of a driver. Just another Cinderella looking for a dress for the ball. But I'm serious, though. If Donnie ever gets a car worthy of his talents . . . he just might get an invite to the De Leon someday."

"Well, ain't that a bitch?" Casey said to Donnie. "First Vinyl gives you a shout-out. Then she shits all over your car."

"You mean our car!" Mikey reminded everyone.

Donnie shrugged. "That's just the way she is." he said.

He finally found a place to park the Impala, and the Hamato team climbed out.

Suddenly Mikey stopped his tracks.

He closed eyes, and acted as if he was receiving some kind of message from the Great Beyond. He turned to his brothers. "Dude, Donnie! While Vinyl was talking about you just then, I had a vision."

"Here we go," Casey murmured.

"Quiet," Raph with a laugh. "I love hearing his visions."

Mikey began: "l saw water and the sun and—"

". . . and a chick in a hot bikini?" Casey interjected with a laugh.

"Shut it, dude!" Mikey said, scolded him. "This is serious."

He composed himself and continued.

"I saw Donnie in this vision," he said. "And you know what? He's gonna win the De Leon."

"No shit?" Raph said with good-natured sarcasm. "Our brother is gonna win the crown jewel of underground street racing? Against McLarens and Bugattis and . . . Wait—is this going to happen this year?"

Raph was right. Small illegal street races happened all the time, and they almost exclusively involved cars that were customized stock cars anyone could buy, such as Camaros, Mustangs, or Gran Torino's. But again, the De Leon was at the other end of the rainbow, involving high end foreign-built cars like Lambos and Buggs. If any American-built cars were involved, they were usually sonically priced Mustang GTS and maybe, on an odd-moon Monday, a Chevy Corvette. But that happened very rarely.

As was usually the case, it was a question of the haves and the have-nots. If Donnie had been able to recoup the sweat equity he and the others had put into his Impala, its price tag might reach twenty grand or so. The cars that raced in the De Leon—their tires cost that much.

Still, Donnie appreciated his brothers enthusiasm.

"Thanks for your vote of confidence, Mikey," Donnie said. He'd just spotted his main competitor for the night: the driver named Tyler Rockwell. "But I'll have my hands full just trying to beat Tyler."

Donnie nodded to Rockwell's tricked-out 1966 Pontiac GTO, just pulling into the lot.

It was a beautiful car. Dark brown, 383 boosted engine. Holly quad carbs, big tires, big rear gears, and an enormous exhaust system. But Donnie's brothers and Casey were looking in the other direction.

"What the hell?" Casey whispered.

A sliver Mercedes SLR had driven into the parking lot. This was a very luxurious car. It was low-slung, and shaped like some kind of futuristic bullet with four huge wheels attached. When seen in the company of Chevy Impalas, Ford Gran Torinos and Pontiac GTOs, the SLR was doing some serious slumming. Only a limited number were built every year, and its price tinge was north of half a million dollars. The car attracted a lot of attention as it pulled to a stop in the center of the crowd, not just because of its notoriety but also because of its driver.

"Shit, is that Sid?" Casey said said, not wanting to believe his own words. "What the hell is he doing back here?"

Sid Jones.

They had all known him for years; had gone to high school with him, though they'd been at different grade levels. Sid was in his late twenties now, built like a professional athlete, and handsome. He was one of those people who always had perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect car, Perfect everything.

He'd also been one of the richest kids in town, way better off then his cousin, Casey. Though it was never really clear what his father did for a living, or even if his last name was really Jones, Sid always had money, always had a new, bitchin' set of wheels, always had the best clothes.

And he always stood out. In a school where most kids wore jeans, hoodies, and T-shirts, Sid always wore black—almost like a Goth with access to an expensive wardrobe. He was always a real douche bag, too, arrogant and mouthy—but many girls just couldn't resist him.

Casey and Sid had been at odds since the first moment they met as young kids. They were just different in many ways. Casey was down-to-earth, working class, and but still wasn't reluctant to talk about his accomplishments. He didn't mind getting his hands dirty. Sid looked like he'd never done an honest day's work in his life—and was proud of it.

An interest in cars was just about the only thing they had in common; this had also led to their many disagreements.

They'd had one fistfight, though there could have been many more. The skirmish happened in the locker room after gym class and Casey gave Sid a definite beat down. But no one else was around at the time at the battle: there were no witnesses. So Sid lied and told another story of the clash. Because of this, the exact winner of the fight was always in dispute.

The brothers and Casey had very few problems with other people a round town. Townies, Goths, metalheads, nerds—they could all get along with just about anyone. But what they didn't like—in fact, what they detested—were liars and braggarts , are that was Sid in a nutshell.

But Sid also had the infuriating talent of being able to convince lots of people that his version of the truth was the right one. That's what made him so devious. The people who had been burned by him in the past could fall for it again. That's how good he was. And those suckers would usually realize what had happened only when it was too late, after Sid had gotten what he wanted from them.

Donnie had raced Sid many times over the years, during high school and beyond. And no matter what luxury car Sid was sporting at the time, Donnie always beat him—at least that was not in dispute.

But as time went on, Sid had been able to work 24/7 on his driving skills, while Donnie had to rust plain work. Because of his family's wealth and his fathers' connections, Sid had had the opportunity to practice endlessly at driving high-end cars while other kids his age were forced to work at McDonald's.

Dipping into his father's apparently unlimited pool of money, it was also able to afford driving sons from some of the top names in the business and get practice time on some of the largest racetracks in the Northeast.

Most important, though, Sid was able to call on his father's friends in the racing world to get him into key races. Small ones at first, then intermediate, and then finally on the senior circuit.

This was no big surprise as he fit the bill. He had movie star looks, drove very expensive cars, could afford a good support team, and had plenty of sponsors.

All this, and always with a good heaping of daddy's money, was how he got to race in the Indianapolis 500.

In the car culture in Mount Kisco, only Sid had reached that pinnacle.

For now . . .

* * *

Having Sid arrive for the night's meet was a major buzzkill for the Hamato Motors crew. It brought their lighthearted conversation to a sudden halt.

And it only got worse.

Soon after the Benz parked, its passengers-side door opened and an attractive female stepped out.

She had long brown hair with purple tipped hilights, big eyes, and a gorgeous shape. She radiated slightly as she mixed with the crowd standing around the car, standing out in the throng like a light in the dark.

This was Angel, Casey's self-acclaimed little sister. Around town, the adjective usually applied to her was "smoking."

Mikey felt his heart sink on first seeing her. He and she had a past; one that didn't have a happy ending.

Angel had been Mikey's girlfriend through most of high school and for a few years afterward. They were an "it" couple—they were almost always together, and when they weren't, they were always texting each other or yapping on the phone. They'd spent so much time together that there was a time when they would finish each other's sentences, to the annoyance of their friends.

They knew each other's families well. They'd climbed Mount Kisco many times. Had eaten numerous times at Applebee's. Had drunk beer at Pride Rock. It was there that their had their first kiss. As a couple, they had been happy, witty, and fun to be around. But throughout their relationship, deep down, Mikey somehow knew they were different people. They wanted different things and had different dreams. His dreams resided within Mount Kisco's area code. To help continue his father's business and to build it into one of the best customizing shops in the country—a hope that was fading fast. Her dreams went about forty-five miles south, to the glamour Of New York City, leaving thc small-town life behind.

So they broke up, She moves to Manhattan and Mikey carried on. But not a day went by when he didn't think about her, and about what might've been.

And now this. Sid and Angel . . . together.

For Mikey it was the perfect storm of misery: his ex-girlfriend showing up with the douche of the week.

"I'm sorry, Mikey," Casey told him. "She didn't tell me she was coming home."

"Ah, it's okay, dude. You didn't know." Mikey said, trying to convince himself that was the case.

But it wasn't.

A crowd quickly gathered around Sid's luxurious Mercedes. Meanwhile Angel had walked a few steps any from the impressive car, and as she did, the crowd quickly closed in around Sid. Many were young motorheass who'd fallen for his charm. They all wanted to take photos with him and his car.

Strangely, with the way Angel was dressed—in a slinky, low-cut, green dress and sexy mid-calf boots—it almost seemed like she was just another one of those young fans lost in the swarm—and not Sid's date for the evening.

"Do you think he's here because he wants in?" Leo asked, watching the little drama unfold. "You think he wants to race?"

"Ah, screw him," Raph said. "We're not letting a four-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar Mercedes into this race".

"Try six hundred thousand," Donnie corrected, painfully admiring Sid's car. "And that's before the modifications."

"Maybe he just came to watch how real race driver drives," Raph said boldly. "Maybe he'll learn something here."

But Donnie just shook his had at the chatter.

"That guy raced Indy," he told his friends. "It doesn't get any more real than that."

"Yeah," Casey said. "But he only lasted a season and a half at Indy."

"In other words, he sucked," Raph said.

But Donnie just kept shaking his head. "He made the top five in three races," he said. "He didn't suck. Far from it. He knows what he's doing."

"But you've got to remember," Leo said, "he wrecked a guy under a caution flag—that's about as low as you can get. That's why they banned him."

Again, that was Sid all over.

Raph turned to Casey. "Telling us that your sister was 'kind of' seeing your dickbag cousin was one thing," he said. "But actually seeing that she is seeing him? That's totally different. That's a real mind fuck."

"It's a nightmare is what it is," Mikey said gloomily.

Meanwhile, the lovefest around Sid continued unabated. He signed autographs with the patience of Hollywood's friendliest leading man. Smiling and laughing nonstop, he posed for pictures with the locals. At one point, he tried to pull Angel into some of the photos, but she posed only reluctantly. It was all she could do just to keep smiling.

While the Hamato crew couldn't take their eyes off the little scene, Mikey was more affected by it than the rest. But none of them liked it.

"If we made the cash his parents do," Leo said to Donnie, "you'd be racing open wheel, too."

Donnie just shrugged. Who knows?

"And you'd be beating him." Raph added. "Just like you beat him every time you guys went head-to-head."

"Oh, shit," Raph suddenly said. The crew looked over and saw that Angel was walking towards them. And more specifically, at Mikey. "This can't be good."

The gang immediately surrounded Mikey. "Let's go, guys." Leo said, trying to get out her line of sight. "We don't need the distraction." But this time, Mikey was the one to shake his head.

"It's okay, dudes." he said. "It's cool."

But his words didn't convince anyone—including himself. Leo turned to Raph "You better get going, Raph," he told him, checking his watch. "The race is gonna start soon."

Raph smiled and walked off to do his thing.

A moment later, Angel arrived.

She was even prettier up close, but was very shy as well.

"Hey guys," she said sweetly. "Hey, Casey."

"Hey," Casey replied, almost under his breath. He hadn't seen her in a while.

They hugged, and Angel asked him, "Are you racing tonight?"

"Nope, Donnie is," he replied curtly.

"Well— tell him to be careful, okay?" she told him sincerely. Casey just nodded. Then Angel turned toward Mikey. The rest of the group took their cue and wandered away, with Donnie heading towards his car. Mikey and Angel were alone.

She touched his arm, just for an instant. But it sent a jolt through him. "Hi, Mikey," she said, trying to smile.

"Hey, Angel," Mikey said with a nod, trying to stay cool.

"I was really sorry to hear about your dad," she said softly. "You got the flowers, didn't you?"

Mikey nodded again—this was very uncomfortable. There was a long pause. He stared at the ground, and Angel stared at him. She had stopped trying to smile. The look in her eyes said it all. She should've stayed with him . . .

Angel broke the silence. "Thank you for watching out for Casey," she said. "All of you."

Mikey just shrugged. "Glad to do it. He's like a fifth brother to us."

Her smile returned briefly.

"How's the shop?" she asked , trying to sound cheerful. Truth was, it was harder for her to talk to Mikey than it was for him to talk to her.

"Fine," Mikey said. "Everything's going good."

Angel was a little surprised to hear this "Really? Well, that's nice . . ."

She was trying her best to hide the skepticism in her voice. There was another awkward silence. Now it was Mikey who broke it.

"So how's the big city?" he asked her.

"Different than I expected, I guess," she replied. "But it's not here, that's for sure."

Mikey forced a smile. "You still allergic to Mount Kisco?"

Angel almost laughed. "You still think you're funny, huh?" She said. "Well, I'll tell you. There's few things left in Mount Kisco that I really like."

Mikey shook his head a little. "Seems like you found what you're looking for."

Angel knew what he was talking about: Sid. "Me and him are taking it real slow," she said, almost like she hid to convince herself.

Mikey looked her right in the eye. "Sid not a guy who takes anything slow," he said, carefully pronouncing every syllable.

She glared right back at him. "Then you should hast moved a little quicker," she scolded him.

A third awkward silence—but this time their eyes were locked on each other.

"Is that what you came here to tell me?" he asked her in a harsh whisper.

She shook her head. "No—it isn't," she replied. "In fact, Sid has something he wants to talk to Donnie about. Something important."

"I doubt that," Mikey said.

"It's true," she said. "But not until after the race. I don't want to distract you."

Mikey had had enough. He said to her, "Then you should've stayed in Manhattan."

With that, he walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

It was almost midnight.

Casey was standing under the Mount Kisco overpass, the finish line for the upcoming race. Crews for all of the cars competing in the race were standing nearby.

Leo was also there, working on his laptop.

Leo's cell phone rang. It was Donnie, still back at the drive-in.

"What's your status?" Donnie asked him.

"We're in place at the finish line," Leo replied. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," Donnie told him. "Do you have the road locked down?"

"Well, Raph is up there," Leo said. "Or at least I think he is. Hold on . . ."

Leo pushed a button on his radio handset.

"Liar One?" he called into the mic. "Are you standing by?"

Raph's distinctive voice came through the handset's tiny speaker.

"Not this again," he moaned. "Why do you have to use that shitty handle?"

"I wouldn't have to use it," Leo told him, "if you would just stop telling people you flew Apache helicopters when you were in the army."

"I was a mechanic in army aviation," Raph replied testily. "And I once took an Apache for a joyride. That's all I ever said."

This was an impressive boast, however, which is why the others in the Hamato Motors crew had their doubts about it.

Apaches were the most powerful combat helicopters in the world. An Apache was like a tank with a rotor spinning on top. They could carry hundreds of pounds of bombs, missiles, or rockets. Each was also equipped with a massive gun, a weapon that could put some serious hurt on just about anything. An Apache could definitely ruin your day if you were on the wrong end of its weapons.

But it was not just what they were packing that made Apaches so fierce. The copter could fly nearly 200 mph, could do loops (rare for any helicopter), could stay aloft for hours, and in general could mimic a lot of maneuvers jet fighters were famous for doing. Only the cream of the army aviation's crop were qualified to fly them.

Again, while he was a great guy, (and brother) he known to exaggerate, and since he'd come back from the military, his tall tales seemed to have grown even taller. This was why his bros were skeptical about his claim to have gone joyriding in an Apache.

"I know that's what you said," Leo told him now. "It's just that I don't believe you."

Raph's's exasperation came through loud and clear. "Just because I was a copter crew chief, that doesn't mean I don't know how to fly a chopper," he said.

"All right, Liar One," Leo said, emphasizing the last two words. "Whatever you say. Now, please, what's the status?"

Raph was full of dubious claims, but at least one of them was true. He could fly an airplane. That's where he was now. Inside a Cessna Skyhawk, flying above the proposed racecourse.

While the Cessna Skyhawk was definitely not an Apache, it did take some skill to fly one. It had a big engine, could fly more than 150 mph, and at more than three miles high. While the Cessna was among the most popular airplanes ever built, only a pilot who knew what he was doing could fly one safely at night.

Raph looked out over the controls of the Cessna, studying a small TV screen showing a night-vison view of the racecourse below. The race would be run on public streets, but the course itself wasn't strictly about driving fast on straightaways. Almost half of the course would take the drivers down some of Mount Kisco's narrowest back alleys and side streets; places with lots of sharp corners and tight turns. How to get through this rat's maze quickly was part of the overall strategy—and danger—of the event.

Raph's job up here was to be on the lookout for the police, or civilian cars, or any kind of vehicle that might get in the way of the race. This was critical, as the speed of the cars involved might go as high as 140 mph.

"It's looking good," Raph finally reported. "Looks like most of Mount Kisco has gone to bed."

"Okay, Liar One," Leo responded.

"Hey, you got a death wish, Fearless?" Raph yelled at him. "My call sign is 'Maverick.' Got it? Call me Maverick, or—"

"Or what?" Leo asked, laughing.

"Or I'll kamikaze this bird right into your nut sack," Raph replied.

* * *

The start of the race was just minutes away.

Back at the drive-in, Donnie pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and counted it quickly.

One thousand dollars. This was a lot of money for him. The mortgage on the garage. Providing food for his brothers. Ordering supplies and car parts. Keeping the electricity on. The thousand dollars might have been put to better use.

But Donnie had suddenly found himself in survivor mode. Just seconds before his father died, Donatello had promised him he'd do anything and everything to keep Hamato Motors going. And so, desperate times called for desperate measures. He knew it was time for him to put his skills as a driver to better use than just getting a rush at 150 mph. He knew it was time for him to keep his word to his father.

He counted out the cash one more time and then joined the other racers in a circle near the race organizer's station.

This was going to be a box race, a well-known event in underground racing circles. It was simple. A predetermined entrance fee was put into a box by each racer. Whoever won the race won the contents of the box.

One of the race organizers was holding the box.

"Everyone knows the rules," he told them. "There's no handicapping in this race. No set-out lengths. You'll leave from a standing start; first bumper to cross the finish line wins."

Donnie thought about it for just one more moment. Then he threw his money into the box. The other four racers did the same.

They would be formidable opponents. Rockwell had his balls-out GTO and Mikey would be driving his beautiful '68 Camaro with its 427-cubic-inch Corvette engine. A cute girl named Joy would be driving a very sweet Porsche 944 coupe with a 3.1 liter, heavily modified 300 horsepower engine under its hood, a powerhouse for such a small car; and some guy who looked a lot like Bruce Lee named Hun would be driving a BMW 3.0 E9 with a 3.2 liter engine bumped up to 310 horsepower, again, a lot of power for such a tiny featherweight burner. Donnie knew none of them would be a pushover.

With the money in place, the race organizer handed Donnie five playing cards.

"Do you want to do the honors, Hamato?" he asked Donnie.

"Why not?" Donnie replied, shrugging.

The race was going to start with the cars lining up in two-car rows. The selection of the cards determined where the racers would line up.

Donnie checked the playing cards. They were all Clubs, from the ace to the five card. He held them face down and gave them a quick shuffle.

"Okay?" the race organizer asked the others. "Everyone agree the cards are clean?"

They all nodded.

"Okay, Tyler," the race organizer said. "You pick first."

Tyler Rockwell selected a card. He turned it over to reveal the two of clubs.

"Not bad," he said with a smile.

Mikey went next.

He crossed fingers on both hands, seemed to say a quick prayer, then picked his card. It was the ace.

"Aw yeah, boy!" he shouted. "The spirits are with me!"

Because Mikey had picked the ace, and Rockwell had the two card, they would comprise the first row, one-two.

Joy went next. She selected the three of clubs.

"Could be worse," she said.

Now it was just Hun and Donnie, and Donnie was not feeling the love. He'd hoped to get a start closer to the front, but that was impossible now.

Hun drew the five of clubs and his shoulders slumped badly. Donnie didn't feel much better, as that left him with the four card—in other words, he would start out in the second row next to Joy.

It was better than being last like Hun—but not by much.

"Okay, that's done," the race organizer said. "I suggest you get to your cars quickly so we can get this bad boy up and running."

Donnie dialed Leo while he was walking back to his car.

"Fourth pick," he told Leo when he answered. "Second row, next to Joy."

He heard Leo groan on the other end.

"Where's Mikey at?" he asked Donnie.

"That little son of a gun picked the ace," Donnie reported with dark humor.

"Well, at least it's still in the family," Leo replied.

"I know," Donnie said.

"Okay, you don't need me to tell you this," Joe counseled him. "But you're just going to have to pick your spots. Bide your time, and then push in the dagger when you see the opportunity. During the rest of it, just stay cool."

"Roger that," Donnie replied.

Donnie hung up and Leo relayed the position news to Casey.

"Not a disaster," Casey said. "He's overcome worse."

Besides putting Donnie's Impala in its best condition ever, the Hamato crew had also installed a video camera on its front bumper. Anything the cam saw would be beamed to Casey's fired-up laptop. This way, the crew would be able to see every move Donnie made. It would be like going on the ride with him.

Casey pushed a few keys on the laptop, and in an instant they were looking at the video image being transmitted live from the race's starting point back at the drive-in. After a few bouts of static, the signal locked in and the picture became extremely clear. It showed what was left of the crowd in the drive-in parking lot—many of them were now heading for the finish line—as well as the ghostly images of nearby lights, glaring weirdly in the night.

Once the visuals were set, Leo once again activated his air-to-ground radio handset. He called Raph.

"Status?" Leo yelled into the handset.

"Still all clear," was Raph's reply. "No cops. No civilians. No one in the way at all."

This was good. In races like this, it was always better for all concerned if the course was "clean."

Crews for the other four cars were nearby. Leo yelled to them: "Our eyes in the sky says it's all clear. Time to rock and roll."

But suddenly Leo felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He turned to find Sid Jones of all people, standing behind him. It was as if he'd come out of nowhere.

"Fuck off," Leo told him.

"Not so fast, Leo," Dino replied. "We're all brothers here—brothers of the wheel, right?"

"I don't know anyone who'd want to be your brother," Leo shot back at him.

But Sid just laughed. He pointed to Casey's laptop and the live feed from Donnie's bumper cam.

"Mind if I take a look?" he asked.

"Can't you afford one of your own?" Casey spat at him bitterly. "Why are you bothering us?"

Sid just shrugged. "I left my laptop in my other Mercedes," he said. "You know, the SL550?"

Any other time, that would have been enough for either Casey or Leo to level Sid, or at least cuff him upside the head. But other things were happening here. This wasn't just another race. There were high stakes involved. If Donnie didn't win, Hamato Motors, their home away from home for many years, would probably be no more.

Plus the race was about to begin.

So this was not the time to start a brawl. This was time to pay attention to the big picture and let the little things ride.

With much reluctance, they let Sid watch the race with them.

* * *

Back at the starting line, located on the road just outside the drive-in theater's entrance, Mikey had expertly maneuvered his Camaro next to Tyler Rockwell's Goat, making up the box race's first row.

Joy slid her Porsche in side by side with Donnie's Impala completing the second row. Hun's BMW 3.0 filled out the line in the third row.

On a signal from the race organizers, the drivers began revving their engines. The sound quickly became deafening, like the roar of distant thunder. Exhaust smoke and blowing dust filled the night air. Each driver gave a thumbs-up—they were all ready to go.

Then the five drivers focused their attention on something off to the right. Their muscles became tensed and unmoving. They were all hair-trigger nervous. For good reason.

Off in the distance, a freight train was approaching. Its dull mechanical growl grew rapidly, the cry of its oncoming whistle cutting through the night.

Suddenly it came around the bend at Battery Hill. Its ultrabright front light slashed through the darkness.

At the very moment its beam appeared, the combined revving of the five engines hit its peak.

Then, tires began to spin. More smoke rose into the air. The noise decibels reached the maximum. One of the race organizers dropped a handkerchief and all five cars suddenly exploded off the line.

Mikey had the best start—it was almost too good. His Camaro shot into the first right-hand turn, reaching it way before anyone else.

But he took this first corner too aggressively, drifting much farther out than he wanted and almost spinning into a ditch. It was only a slight delay, but even a moment's loss could be costly in these types of races. As proof, Mikey's miscue allowed Rockwell to get the inside line. Rockwell laid on the gas and quickly gained a lot of ground on Mikey.

Meanwhile, just two seconds behind, Donnie, Joy, and Hun drifted violently around that first crucial corner as well, but with a little more control.

A short downhill straightaway lay ahead.

Beyond that was a railroad crossing.

* * *

A mile to the north of the race's starting line, CSX freight train Number 12, traveling from Wassaic, New York, to Oak Point Terminal in the Bronx, was running right on schedule.

The train consisted of thirty-two freight cars being pulled by two massive diesel locomotives, each boasting 4,000 horsepower. The Number 12 was traveling at 55 mph at the moment, its average speed, and was due in the Bronx at 12:35 a.m.

As it cleared Battery Hill, it reduced its speed to 45 mph, but only temporarily. After the bend there was a gradual decline that ran for several miles. Once the train reached this stretch of track, its speed would increase to 65 mph, its fastest for the entire eighty-two-mile trip.

As running trains was all about staying on time, this increase in speed was built into Number 12's thrice– weekly schedule. So, just like every other time this midnight train passed through Mount Kisco, it was due to cross the open road intersection at Chase Avenue, arriving there at precisely 12:05 a.m.

The railroad crossing was only a mile from the Mount Kisco Drive-in, near the end of the appropriately named Railroad Street. The crossing had many warning lights and an alarm bell that rang to high heaven whenever a train was approaching. It also had a standard St. Andrew's caution cross on a high pole looking over it and a street-level sign that advised all to "Look Both Ways."

But Chase Avenue was a passive crossing. It had no crossing gates. It was located in such an isolated spot, on such a little-used road, the New York transportation department had long ago deemed crossing gates unnecessary.

At 12:04, the crossing came alive. Its red lights began flashing and the warning bell began ringing madly. But none of the five race drivers, now just a quarter mile away, lifted off their accelerators when the commotion began.

Just the opposite. They were all heading as fast as they could toward the railroad crossing.

* * *

Not unlike Donnie's Impala, the train crew had a video camera attached to the front of their locomotive. Unlike Donnie's bumper cam, though, the train's video setup was equipped with infra-red night vision capability, allowing the train crew to see any unusual heat sources that might be looming in their path for up to a mile away.

And at the moment, the train crew could see five extremely bright blobs of heat traveling at high speed down Railroad Street, heading right for the crossing.

"Those punks!" the engineer cried. "Not again!"

Suddenly the night was cut by a sound that drowned out even the roar of the five race car engines.

It was CSX Number 12 blowing its collision horn. The train crew had seen this type of thing before—crazy kids in souped-up cars playing chicken with their train. They knew how insanely dangerous it was. That's why they were laying on the emergency horn so long and loud, even as the race cars were just seconds away from reaching the crossing.

But the horn had no effect. None of the racers showed any signs of slowing down. If anything, they were trying to go faster.

* * *

Mikey's Camaro was the first to streak across the railroad crossing.

He hit the raised track bed so hard and so fast, he went airborne for a few long seconds. Then he came down just as violently as he went up, crashing back to the asphalt roadway. But his extra heavy-duty shocks cushioned the blow just as advertised, and he was unharmed. Mikey shifted down just one level, to get back some of the speed he'd lost while in flight, and then booted it again. He was soon back up to 120 mph and still solidly in first place.

But in these kinds of races, being solidly in first place was just a matter of inches. Rockwell's GTO had been right on Mikey's bumper when Mikey went flying over the tracks, and by mimicking Mikey's maneuver, Tyler went airborne, too.

He landed, just as Mikey had, hard and fast, bottoming out a bit, but causing nothing more than a brief storm of sparks before regaining form. Pushing his pedal to the floor, he reclaimed his solid second position in an instant, gluing himself to Mikey's ass.

Just seconds behind them were Joy and Donnie. They were neck and neck as they approached the railroad crossing, traveling side by side in excess of 100 mph. But Donnie was in the dead man's slot. He was closest to the oncoming train and if something went wrong, it would hit him first.

The locomotive's extremely bright headlight blinded him as it filled up the interior of the Impala. It was like the sun itself was coming through the passenger's window. But there was no turning back now—and Donnie knew it. There was no way he could stop in time; no way he could swerve out of the way. He had to either beat the train or get crushed by it.

He roared across the raised tracks a heartbeat later, Joy going over just an instant before him. Both of them went airborne. Though she was a hairbreadth in front of him, had the train hit Donnie, she would have been killed an instant later as well.

But none of that happened. They both cleared the tracks—and the rush that went through Donnie's body was like nothing he'd ever felt before. He'd never been that close to being killed in a race or anywhere else. He'd come within mere inches of being obliterated by the train, but in this race within a race, car versus locomotive, he'd won.

He and Joy hit the pavement at the same time, creating a twin storm of smoke and sparks. At that moment, Donnie looked over at her, his face lit by the sparks they'd both just created. He was surprised to see her glancing back at him, the same look of exhilaration and relief on her face as he was sure was on his.

Their twin expressions said it all . . .

This is why we race.

* * *

Hun was still in last place, though.

Doomed by his poor placement at the start, he knew as soon as he saw the first four racers go over the crossing that there was no way he could make it in time.

Everything happens fast while traveling at 110 mph, sometimes faster than the human brain could process. Hun was just twenty feet away from the railroad crossing when CSX Number 12 reached it. Its emergency horn was still blaring, yet Hun was still heading straight for it, seconds away from colliding with it. He pulled on his emergency brake, instantly locking his brakes. But this was not enough. He was still going way too fast to avoid disaster.

In the next instant, he turned the BMW's wheel violently to the right, propelling him into a ragged drift which, in among a lot of smoke and dust, put him driver's-side-first with the train—not where he wanted to be. Desperate, he put both feet on the brakes and went into a full skid. He turned the wheel violently again, this time to the left, causing him to drift wildly in the other direction. He turned 180 degrees and came to a stop so close to the crossing that his side mirror was hit by the passing train. The mirror exploded into the driver's window, sending shattered glass all over him.

It all happened in just three seconds—and the first thing Hun did was check his crotch. It was not wet, thank God; not even a little moist.

He was out of the race, and out $1,000. But at least he was alive—and dry.

* * *

Now there were just four—and they were racing practically two-by-two, bumper to bumper, down the rest of Railroad Street.

They came to a sharp corner. Mikey and Tyler went into a drift side by side, but Tyler's GTO got wobbly as his outside wheels hit the dirt.

He tried to correct the problem, but was forced to dive right. Cars were parked on the shoulder of the road and he was just seconds away from smashing into them.

Donnie and Joy saw what was happening and tried to take advantage of the situation. With Tyler in trouble, they both powered themselves around the corner at the same moment, almost making it three wide. But Tyler was a great driver. He recovered quickly and was back up on the street in a flash. He immediately split between Joy and Donnie, almost smashing Donnie's right front quarter panel in the process.

Donnie shook his head in frustration. Joy had managed to get ahead of Tyler and claim second place, but Tyler's astute driving had not only shut the door on Donnie—it had pushed him back into fourth place.

But Donnie had a plan.

He knew there was a tight turn up ahead. It was a hard corner to the right that went through a small concrete tunnel, followed by an immediate left. Donnie strategically moved wide, putting himself on the outside and in a good place to take this first sharp corner. Then he waited.

Still in the lead, Mikey drifted through the turn with precision. Joy was now right behind him. But as she entered the right-hand turn, Tyler's presence right on her bumper forced her to overdrift. She lost control for a moment, bouncing her car off some debris that had been stacked at the tunnel's entrance.

This slowed down Joy just enough to let Tyler move back into second place. Meanwhile, his plan foiled, Donnie had been forced to brake through the tunnel to avoid the falling trash.

When the smoke cleared, he was still in fourth place and unable to make up any ground.

The four cars jumped onto Route 16, a straight and narrow highway, and finally opened up their engines for some real high-speed driving. All four were soon roaring along at 140 mph–plus.

They blew through a desolate intersection like they were all moving at the speed of sound. Then they came to an underpass with just microseconds separating them. Each car rocketed through it, closing in on 145 mph. Beyond them now was the small, quiet city of Mount Kisco.

But then came trouble . . .

At that moment, up in the Cessna, Raph had spotted something.

He quickly clicked his microphone on.

"Be advised . . ." he said, "I have traffic ahead. Repeat—I've got traffic ahead!"

Still on the highway, the four drivers were approaching a wide intersection when Donnie got Raph's call.

All were still going close to 150 mph and it was then that they saw the first signs of life. There were a few civilian cars driving about, creating some light traffic on the highway.

This didn't concern Tyler or Mikey. They blasted by the cars like they were standing still, drifting wildly and going through the next intersection sideways.

Joy was not so lucky. She had to swerve to avoid one of the civilian cars and began spinning out. This was the opportunity Donnie had been waiting for. He hit the gas and threaded the needle between Joy and a civilian car.

And just like that he was in third place, leaving Joy behind.

Waiting at the finish line, Casey was following the race on his laptop. Leo was watching over his shoulder. So was Sid.

They'd watched the bumper-cam image of Donnie drifting through the potentially dangerous intersection and then accelerating madly into third place.

"That was a close one," Sid said. "He got lucky there."

"That's not luck," Leo shot back. "Donnie is patient. He waits for his moments."

Donnie was always in total control, and Casey and Leo knew it.

But Sid only laughed.

"Sure thing, guys," he said snidely.

* * *

It was ten past midnight and the streets of downtown Mount Kisco were deserted.

But not for long.

The roar of the oncoming race cars sounded like a formation of jet airplanes approaching; the thunderous noise was soon echoing off the locked-up buildings of the sleepy downtown.

With Joy crapped out, there were only three racers left. Tyler was now in the lead. Mikey was right on his bumper. Very close behind was Donnie This was where the race changed radically. Gone were the straightaways. Now the route brought them through a warren of back alleys and narrow streets in the older part of the tiny city.

All three of them loudly drifted into the first alley, the cacophony of screeching tires reaching new dimensions. The alley, behind East Main Street, was narrow, and once in, there was no way to pass. At this point, it was more like driving through an obstacle course than a race, but all three drivers handled it expertly.

Seconds later they bounced out of the alley, roaring across Boltis Street and into the next alley beyond. Sparks were flying everywhere; their undercarriages were tearing up the old asphalt pavement. But none of the three dared slow down.

Out of the second alley, they came to a hard left turn onto St. Mark's Place. Though it was not much wider than the alley, all three were screaming down it in seconds, topping 100 mph.

Mikey was able to regain the lead coming out of St. Mark's Place. Tyler fell behind because he'd drifted too wide but was still a close second, with Donnie right behind him in third.

This was okay. Donnie's reputation was one of patience and opportunity. His talent was knowing when to make a move and his genius was not stressing about it if that move failed, because more chances were always right around the corner. And at that moment, rocketing down that side street, Donnie decided to make a move.

He mashed his accelerator, and an instant later almost collided with Mikey while trying to outflank Tyler. An instant after that, they all slid sideways into the entrance of a place called I-beam Alley.

All three of them did a violent drift, which evolved into doing a U-turn while screaming past a huge parking structure. Mikey was driving in such a way that he was almost able to control Tyler's steering, countering him move by move. But by doing that, Mikey was also preventing Donnie from getting around both of them. It was highly successful and very ballsy driving for the little guy. As a result, they left I-beam Alley in the same positions as when they went in.

Now they were back out on a somewhat wider thoroughfare, this one called Spring Street. From here they accelerated toward a statue located in the center of the town square, that of "Chief Kisco." All three of them drifted around the statue into a right U-turn, but Tyler had gained the prime lane. He hit his gas and in a burst of power was able to sneak in front of Mikey.

Again, the noise was either awesome or bloodcurdling, depending on your point of view. But once around the statue, they headed for the two-lane Route 117 beyond it.

All three immediately went into the left lane. This was another point in the race Donnie had been waiting for. Time to try another move. He jerked his steering wheel sharply and dove into the right-hand lane. His main objective was to get past Mikey.

And he was about to do it, when up ahead, a very slow-moving street sweeper filled Donnie's field of vision. It was completely blocking his path. There was only one thing he could do. He red-lined his RPMs, upshifted, and then dropped the hammer just shy of the max. In that instant, he closed the gap between Mikey and the street sweeper. Then he counted down.

"Three . . . Two . . . One . . ."

At the very last moment, Donnie floored it, shot in front of Mikey, and screeched back into the left-hand lane all in one smooth motion.

Just like that, he was in second place.

He took a moment to look in his rearview mirror. Mikey was now right on his tail, furious that Donnie had so expertly jinked him, especially after Tyler had done the same thing to him just moments before.

"Sorry, little brother," Donnie called out, with a smile.

A few seconds passed—then all three screeched into another alley, this one off Moore Avenue. They were back in the rat's maze at top speed, but Tyler hit his gas a little too hard and sideswiped a brick building just a few feet down from the alley's entrance. This slowed him just enough for Donnie to get right on his bumper.

Donnie felt like he was moving at warp speed inside the alley and up ahead he knew it would begin to widen. Time for another move. He jerked the wheel violently to the left, taking the outside lane, hoping to start his turn out of the alley early, and thus gain even more on Jimmy.

The three cars shot out of the alley a few seconds later, screeching left onto Woodland Avenue, which was a one-way street. Donnie's maneuver had worked; he'd gained the inner lane and was now in a good position to try for the lead. But coming out of nowhere, he saw a homeless man who was pushing a shopping cart step off the curb and right into his path.

Donnie was boxed in so tight by Tyler, he had no other choice but to drive right into the shopping cart.

The cart exploded into a million pieces the instant he hit it, sending debris up and over his car. Seeing the remains of the shopping cart flying through the air, Mikey swerved at the last possible moment, barely missing the rain of rags and junk.

That was way too close, Donnie thought.

He screamed into his radio:

"Raph!"

Raph replied just as quickly.

"I saw you had it, bro!" he said. "No worries!"

The three cars drifted loudly left onto Poplar Street only to find a civilian car in the oncoming lane heading right at them.

Donnie took the opportunity to inch just a little closer to Tyler's bumper, leaving Mikey behind. This position allowed Donnie to draft off Tyler as they started to pass the approaching car together.

Once again, Donnie decided to make a move. Once past the civilian car, he swung onto the wrong side of the road. He was now down in third gear; his engine was screaming. He shifted up to fourth; his engine screamed again, but the move served to slingshot him around Jimmy's left bumper. Donnie buried his accelerator and was instantly neck and neck with the GTO.

Suddenly they were approaching the arched underpass, the finish line lit by flares.

This was it.

The underpass went by in a blur. Donnie poured on everything he had. Just as they exited under the overpass, he did a quick look to his left and saw the grill of Tyler's car not six inches behind him.

A second after that, it was over.

Donnie had won.

But there was no time for celebration as Raph was suddenly screaming into his radio: "Doughnut convention!"

His warning needed no translation, but Casey provided one anyway.

"Cops!" he yelled.

On that word, the racers, their cars, and their crews simply vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

The sounds of soda cans being popped and loud hip-hop music filled the night air around Hamato Motors Garage.

The race had been over for hours but the crew was still talking about it, reliving it turn by turn. Raph and Casey were especially excited when telling their version of events, as seen through the Impala's bumper cam. As they talked while the soda flowed, it was almost as if they'd been behind the wheel instead of Donnie.

Donnie and Mikey listened to it all with good humor. They were standing side by side, as was usually the case.

"I thought you were going to catch Rockwell for sure," Donnie told Mikey as he counted his five-thousand-dollar winnings again, one wrinkled bill at a time.

"I had him in the turns, but he's a hell of a driver," Mikey replied, devouring a slice pizza in his hand. "And so are you. But I'll get you both next time!"

It went on like this for a while. But Donnie was waiting for the right moment to steal away. Finally, he told the others he had to take a leak.

He walked to the far corner of the garage and looked up into the night. He was finally breathing normally again, his heart rate back where it should be. He'd been in street races before, but nothing as intense as this one. Maybe it was because there had been so much at stake this time.

The five thousand dollars would help. But he knew it was just a Band-Aid—a way to keep the wolves away from his door, but only for a short while.

Then what?

The bills would not stop. The bank would still want its money. And he couldn't expect his crew to work for free. He had to think of some other way to get income, or the garage would be history.

He was a good driver, but he was stuck in the minor leagues. Five-thousand-dollar box races were rare in his area. If he wanted to get in on others, he'd have to go to Chicago, Miami, or LA—hotbeds for these types of things. But the costs of traveling around so much would take away a big chunk of whatever he won. And maybe he wouldn't win all the time. Or at all. And how would the garage stay running if he was gone for long periods of time?

There was only one solution he could think of. He had to move up to the major leagues somehow. Play with the big boys—the guys who were getting slots in Vinyls De Leon. Trouble was, he couldn't do that in his Impala. He would need to have a real supercar, or at least drive for someone who owned one.

Donnie knew Vinyl had been right on the money earlier that evening. If he got ahold of a good car, maybe the De Leon wasn't so out of the question.

But until then, he was stuck down here in the bushes.

He looked out over the town's skyline. All was quiet again in Mount Kisco. He could just barely see the outline of Pride Rock against the starry sky. He wondered how many happy, drunk kids were still up there, stumbling around in the dark, as he had done many times in the past. He hadn't been up there in years. Like it or not, it was a place that belonged in the memories of his early youth.

He'd always carried a quiet confidence about him, a trait inherited from his father. And while he knew his decisions might not have always been right, at least he knew that he thought carefully about anything important before he proceeded.

He walked back to the garage, grabbed another beer from the cooler, and fell back into the never-ending bullshit session about the race.

But suddenly, a noise from outside distracted them.

Casey got up and looked out the window.

"You've got to be shitting me," he said. "What the fuck is he doing here?"

"Who?" Mikey asked.

"How many assholes do we know that drive a Mercedes SLR?" Casey asked.

"All of them," Raph replied in perfect deadpan.

"Oh, yeah," Casey replied, then said, "then, how many of them are named Sid?"

They heard a car pull up a moment later. Through the bay door windows they could see it was in fact Sid's Mercedes SLR. No one said a word. They watched as Sid got out of the car and looked around the outside of the garage, sniffing at the grease and grime. Then he headed for the open bay door.

As one, the crew stood up and formed a united front at the threshold. There was no way they wanted Sid to enter the garage itself. This was their turf.

Sid spotted them and immediately stopped in his tracks.

He looked at Mikey.

"That was some nice driving out there, short stuff," he said, sucking up. "I'm impressed."

But Mikey just laughed at him.

"You hear that, Donnie?" he said. "Sid Jones is impressed with me. I can die happy now, I guess."

Donnie glared at Sid, but said nothing.

Sid smiled thinly. "And there's Mr. Hamato Donatello" he said. "The man to beat in Mount Kisco . . ."

Donnie looked him up and down, but still said nothing.

"Sorry about your old man," Sid went on, in a very patronizing fashion, eyeing the four brothers. "I know you all were close."

Finally Leonardo spoke. "Are you lost or something, Sid?"

Sid had to think a moment.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You haven't been around here in a long time," Casey told him acidly. "We figured you must be lost."

Donnie took a step toward Sid to emphasize his words and make one thing clear: He was not wanted around here.

"So nothing's changed then, huh?" Sid asked them. "Even after ten years you all still want to just pick up some locker room fight?"

Sid looked them over and snuck a glance at Mikey, who wasn't really looking at Sid. He was looking at the Mercedes, searching for any sign of Angel.

"She's at her folks'," Sid told him, reading his mind. "This has nothing to do with her."

Mikey felt his shoulders droop. But at least she wasn't with Sid

"So what do you want, Jones?" Donnie finally spat at him. "We're busy here."

"It's simple," Sid said. "I want to see you build a real car."

Donnie waved him off. " We have plenty of cars to build."

Sid took a look around the rough-edged garage. "Yeah, well, how's that been working out for you lately?"

Leo gave him a hard look. Sid shrugged.

"Listen guys, I didn't come here to insult you," he said, a bit of his attitude seeming to disappear. "I came here to make you a business proposition, something that could be a game changer for you."

"You handing out dreams now, Sid?" Mikey scoffed at him. "How much is this going to cost us?"

Sid ignored him. He looked around the garage again.

"I've seen a hundred custom racing shops since I left this town," he said to the brothers. "But I still haven't seen work as good as yours, especially the work on your Impala, Don."

The garage crew was silent. None of them knew what to make of Sid's compliment.

"That's all the work of these guys," Donnie said, pointing at the others. "That's not me . . ."

Sid took a breath. "Let me get right to the point," he said. "I've got a very special car that needs to be finished."

"What kind of car are we talking about?" Leo asked.

"A Ford Mustang," Sid replied.

"A Mustang?" Leo said. "There's only about a million of them out there."

"But not one like this," Sid told him. "It's the last Mustang Ford and Carroll Shelby were building before Carroll died."

Suddenly everyone in the crew was paying rapt attention. Carroll Shelby was not only a rock star in the world of customized cars, he was considered the Godfather of street racing. To say he was an automotive genius was like saying the sky was blue or the sun was hot. Invoking his name was no little matter.

"Thousands of people would want to put their hands on a car like that," Donnie said. "How did you get it? You steal it?"

Sid ignored the insult.

"Mr. Shelby and my uncle were close friends," he explained. He waited a moment, then continued, "Here's the proposition: If you finish building that Mustang like you rebuilt your Impala I'll give you a quarter of what I get when I sell it."

Raph exploded.

"A quarter?" he exclaimed. "You cheap bastard!"

"If it's done up right, the car will be worth two million, minimum," Sid shot back. "That will be five hundred thousand dollars in your pocket."

The crew fell stone-cold silent. That kind of money had never been anywhere within their reach before. Sid and the brothers just stared at each other. There was a lot of history between them, all of it bad. Where was all this going?

Sid broke the silence. "I look around here and I see a ton of talent and no opportunity," he told them. "Face it, you guys are dying here. I mean, it's obvious. So just forget everything that's happened between us. That's ancient history. I'm here to make peace. And money—for all of us."

The crew exchanged worried looks. Each one knew this was wrong—trading with the enemy. The uneasy silence could have been cut with a knife.

Sid went on. "Look, don't answer me now," he said. "Just think about it."

As Sid turned to leave, Donnie looked back at his brothers. He already knew their opinion on this.

But then Donnie just shook his head. "I don't need to think about it," he said suddenly. "I'll do it."

A gasp came up from the others.

Sid smiled. "I'll have it here tomorrow," he told Tobey.

There was no handshake. No good-bye. But Donnie and Sid exchanged a brief look of nonhostility, if not respect.

Then Sid got back into his Mercedes and drove away.

Someone turned off the music. The beer cooler was closed. An angry silence now enveloped the garage. Raph finally broke the spell.

"I have one question for you, Don," he said to Donnie "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND? We're going to work for Sid Jones?"

Leo stood up. He was the oldest one among them, their elder statesman, and just because their father gave Donnie the shop, that didn't mean he didn't get a say.

"Yeah, what the hell, Donnie?" he asked. "We don't want anything to do with that asshole."

"He's a bad guy," Mikey added. "And he's always been a bad guy."

Leo spoke again.

"We don't need that jackass, Don," he said. "Forget Sid. Tell him you're out. We're doing fine here without him."

"But we're not," Donnie said, stunning them. "We're not doing fine."

The crew was surprised to hear this—except Leo. The conversation he'd overheard earlier suddenly made sense.

"Well, a lot of people are hurting, Don," Casey said. "You know things have changed in this town. It's a tough economy for everyone. Or mostly everyone."

Donnie thought for a moment.

"Look. I'm way behind on the loan," he finally told them. "The guy from the bank was here today. Ask Leo—he saw him."

Leo could only nod and stare at the floor.

"They're going to shut us down," Donnie went on. "It's as simple as that."

This was a crushing blow for all of them to hear. They loved the garage and everything that went with it. This was their home.

Mikey spoke up. "Look, I don't like Sid as much as anyone else here," he said. "But if what you're saying is that we need to work with him to save this place, then I'm with you, bro."

But Casey still disagreed.

"You just made five grand tonight, Don," he said. "You're not completely broke."

"That's got to be enough to make your loan payment," Leo added.

"But what happens next month?" Donnie asked them. "And the month after that? I can't expect to win all these dinky races. Even if I did, it still wouldn't be enough. You're a business major, Leo. You know what I'm talking about. It's a question of dollars and cents, and a steady flow of income. And we just aren't getting that anymore."

This was serious, and they could all feel it.

"Here's the bottom line," Donnie told them. "If we don't do this, then this place is gone."

He looked at each one for a long time.

"Anyone here up for that?" he asked.

No one said a word.

The next day a flatbed truck pulled up to the front of Hamato Motors.

Behind the wheel was an individual appropriately named Big Al. Obese and sweaty, he was Sid's right-hand man.

He backed the truck up to the garage's main door.

On the back was a car that looked vaguely like a Mustang, but it was sitting on blocks and many of its key components were missing. It was far from being a completed car.

It was in such a state of disassembly it took a while just to get it off the flatbed and into the garage.

But once that was done, the doors of the garage were closed behind it—and from that point on, Hamato Motors would never be the same again.


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing the Hamato Motors crew did in the Mustang rebuild project was treat themselves to a steak dinner.

It was an easy decision. Shortly after taking possession of the Shelby Mustang, they found an envelope stuck in the driver's-side sunshade. Inside was a credit card from one of Sid's father's businesses. An attached Post-it note read, "For all reasonable expenses . . ."

The crew immediately piled into Donnie's Impala and headed for Applebee's, where all five ordered the most expensive item on the menu: the 12-ounce New York strip steak. As they drank a never-ending stream of beer and soda, they sat in a corner table and, keeping their voices down, mapped out what they wanted to do, and more important, what they had to do, to make the whole thing work.

They quickly realized their number one priority had to be security. This was for several reasons. First, although they were now, improbably, working for Sid, they still didn't trust him. They knew it would not be beyond him to claim the gang had stolen the ultra-exclusive, one of a kind car. His visit to them after the box race had been caught on the garage's security cameras, as had Big Al's delivery of the Mustang itself the next day. Still, they knew they had to be careful and document everything just in case it was all an elaborate ambush set up by Sid.

Secondly, considering that the car they were going to build might have a price tag of $2 million or more, they needed to make sure everything they were doing stayed not just on the down low, and not just below the radar. Their activities had to be off the radar completely.

Again, this was just an exercise in playing it smart. They were well aware that there were some people in the local street racing culture who, if they heard something big was happening at Hamato Motors, something involving the late god Carroll Shelby, wouldn't think twice about breaking into the garage and stealing whatever it was. They also didn't want word to leak out to the underground racing media, Vinyl Scratch included, because that might bring the same unwanted attention on a national scale.

So what they needed was security on a military scale. That's why they gave the job to Raph.

They spent their first full day of work on the rebuild closing down and sealing off two of the garage's four repair bays. The excuse, for anyone who asked, was that they were repairing and then repainting them. To this end, they draped blue plastic tarpaulins around the two bays, stretching them from ceiling to floor. They taped newspaper around the two windows that could look into the cordoned-off bays, and randomly sprayed some paint on the newspaper to make it look like they were in fact doing some painting within.

Next, Donnie upgraded their security cameras to include an audio pickup. Then, he installed an upscale burglar alarm that came complete with infrared capability and motion detection equipment. He did all of this without advertising the upgrade by applying warning stickers on the outside doors and walls. They all agreed: If they were going to catch someone sneaking in, they wanted to do it quietly, so they could deal with it the same way.

Donnie also advised them to not talk to anyone about what they were doing, even in a peripheral way. Loose lips sink ships, he told them over and over—and they knew completely buttoning up on the project would be in their best interest. They would continue doing business as usual at the garage—changing oil, giving out inspection stickers, doing tune-ups. They would work on the project mostly at night and into the morning, before the dwindling number of customers who still frequented the place showed up.

They even put into place a system where any overly exotic part that they needed, something not usually used in a typical civilian car, would be bought only from a rotating file of online dealers, as opposed to ordering it through the local NAPA auto parts store. That place, they knew, was a potential nest of spies.

Donnie was so precise that he even came up with a system of how they would dispose of parts and used debris that could be traced back to the Shelby. Instead of throwing it all away in the Hamato Motors Dumpster, providing valuable clues to what they were up to, he had them load it all into garbage bags, which he then disposed of at various other Dumpsters around town.

As he told them many times, "This is how the CIA do it."

They worked out a schedule of two men on, two men off, with Mikey being the swingman. Two mechanics would be on hand during regular business hours to do the everyday Hamato Motors grunt work, while two would come in after closing and work on the supercar—which had been put up on the lift in bay number three—through the night.

Mikey showed up whenever he was needed, or at least that was the plan. In reality, he was there almost all the time, day or night. Next to Donnie, he put in the most hours on the project, as he knew it might lead to one of his visions actually coming true.

But in the end, the car was Donnie's baby. He frequently did double duty, working the garage during the day and then working the project all night. When they got near the end, to the point where they didn't have to work continual nights anymore, Donnie still stayed at the garage, sleeping next to the Mustang-in-progress, he old Bó staff, from when his father taught him and his brothers martial arts always within reach, keeping watch.

By that point, he didn't want to leave it alone even for a minute.

The first thing they had to do after the car arrived was, surprisingly, get rid of a lot of the stuff that had come with it.

As beautiful as the overall design was—or had been intended to be by the late, great Carroll Shelby—by the time the car got into their hands, it had a lot of stock and inadequate equipment attached to it. Just why this was, they never found out. It might have been from a previous attempt to bring the car to life, or maybe someone else's stab at security, hiding the jewel under a bunch of cheap parts.

But whatever the case, a lot of it had to go.

The wheels, the tires, the driveshaft, even the reconditioned 302 engine, all went in the trash. Getting rid of the 302 was especially painful. It was a sweet motor, but way below the standard they needed to make their vision run. Plus they didn't want to hold on to anything that could link them back to the unique Shelby. So everything from the brakes to the axles, from the differential to the exhaust, and even the gas tank, was taken off, cut up into little pieces, and put into garbage bags for Raph to drop off all over the area.

Next, they needed a real engine, something befitting what they were trying to build. As everything was being paid for by Sid's credit card, the crew didn't care about expense. As long as it worked, they weren't going to be concerned where the green was coming from or how much of it they spent. They just had to keep hard and fast documentation on everything in case Sid reverted to his usual devilish ways.

So after doing some research they purchased a 5.8-liter Ford all-aluminum DOHC engine with aluminum heads. Once this powerhouse was on-site, they installed forged aluminum pistons and rods and attached a treated forged crankshaft to it. Everything went smoothly.

The cylinders went in next, after they were coated with plasma arc iron oxide to reduce friction. Then came the supercharger, a high volume oil pump, and a dry sump oil system, all bought online from Japan. They machined the heads to improve valve action, and even polished their interiors to get better airflow. Then they put in four high duration camshafts and eight huge fuel injectors along with special high volume fuel lines to keep the juice flowing when they needed it.

After fitting on long tube exhaust headers, it came down to the spark plugs. It took Donnie an entire day online trying to figure out which spark plugs to buy, and once they arrived, what their proper gapping width should be.

But once all these things had been done, the entire gang gathered inside bay number three, crossed their fingers en masse, and turned the temporary ignition switch. The engine came to life with a roar so loud, their heads hurt for days.

They didn't mind a bit, though. It was music to their ears.

Though the engine still needed some tweaking, right out of the gate it began running at more than 6,000 RPMs, which they determined could translate to almost 750 horsepower, with a potential of 900. This, they knew, could mean the completed Mustang might reach a speed somewhere around 230 mph, an astonishing number that would have impressed Carroll Shelby himself.

In any case, it was an amazing achievement for the five glorified grease monkeys from Hamato Motors. They'd set out to create a monster, and that's exactly what they did.

But most monsters come with problems, and theirs was no different.

All the undercarriage work went well. They stiffened the chassis with heavy steel sub-frame connectors and installed top-of-the-line adjustable shocks and springs. They put a heavy-duty battery in the rear quarter of the trunk and installed a huge fuel pump plus booster and an overly large exhaust system. They thought the hardest task would be modifying the steering column to accommodate their gear shift paddles, which were installed on the steering wheel, eliminating the need for a stick shift and a clutch. But all that went well, too.

Then it came time to put in the driveshaft. They'd purchased one from the best dealer in the country, and had high hopes for a smooth installation. But no matter what they did, the custom shaft just would not fit.

They didn't know why. They'd checked and rechecked their measurements. Everything seemed okay. They checked their clearances—but again, nothing was askew. They spent three straight days and nights trying every way they knew to get the shaft connected, yet nothing worked. They even machined down the ends of the very expensive shaft, hoping to gain a few precious millimeters, but once again, it was no soap. And because they'd designed that portion of the drivetrain to fit this particular exotic driveshaft, there was no alternative out there for them to buy to replace it.

So they had to invent one.

Leo and Casey pulled an all-nighter at the height of the crisis, and when Donnie came in the next morning, he found them both asleep or passed out—it was hard to tell which. But on the workstand was a new, completely original driveshaft they'd constructed out of carbon fiber material. 

Donnie was astonished. They were all good at connecting things to cars, putting on parts bought from manufacturers, and making them go. But to manufacture something like this on their own?

He woke Leo long enough to have him swear the new driveshaft fit and would work. And as a bonus, it would lighten the overall weight of the car, a very important factor.

After a few hours' rest, they put the new piece of equipment to the test—and sure enough, it fit perfectly and ran perfectly.

It was that morning that Donnie knew something very special was happening inside Hamato Motors.

The brake work came next—never a favorite for any mechanic. But while it went slow—attaching fourteen-inch six-piston disc brake calipers and brake pads in the front and thirteen-inch ones in the back—it also went well. Everything worked after just a few adjustments. The wheels came next—hugely expensive, but critical, as they would have to hold on tight to the enormously expensive racing tires the crew had bought.

But that's when their monster became cranky again.

It happened the day they put the engine inside the car—this was to be a huge step toward completion. After weeks of working on the motor and the body separately, now the car would be getting its 700 horsepower–plus heart.

The engine went in fine—but when they tried to put the hood on, it was a no-go. The supercharger they'd installed was just a little too big and the hood they'd purchased a little too small. It just wouldn't close.

They tried every adjustment they could think of, including lowering a lot of the gear sitting on top of the engine, but it was futile. The fucking hood just would not fit. Of all the things to go wrong, they never saw this one coming.

Now what? They'd waited four weeks for the custom-made hood to arrive. They couldn't bear waiting another month for a new one, even if they could find one to fit.

So Leo and Casey went back into their mad-scientist mode—this time with Donnie helping out. It took twenty-four hours straight of hard work, but they fashioned a completely new hood, once again from carbon fiber, making it sleek and workable.

It was then that Donnie thought, Maybe we're actually getting good at this.

Everything ran smoothly after that—at least for a while. The electrical system went in with no problems. The same was true for the fuel lines, the wiring harnesses, and the cooling system.

It was a happy day when all five of them pitched in to mask off the car for its primer coats, and then, with Donnie as the main artist, spraying on its gleaming silver and blue finish.

When Leo asked the gasser just how much the paint cost, Donnie replied, "Only a gazillion dollars."

But the results were worth it. Once put together and painted, the Mustang looked so sleek and so aerodynamic, it seemed to be traveling 100 mph even as it was standing still.

They brought in a Chassis Dyno and programmed the FMU computer with software to maximize horsepower and torque. The program recommended ways they could get additional horsepower. They made these adjustments and were floored when the computer told them they were now in the area of 900 horsepower—which had been their holy grail since the beginning.

They finally celebrated that night. Before this, they had banned all beer, all booze, and all of any other kind of recreational distractions that might interfere with the project. But this milestone called for at least a case of beer—they were very close to finishing this awesome car, something started by the Godfather of it all. And they had done it in secret, off the radar, with no interference from Sid (who never once contacted them during the building process), with no break-ins, no fistfights, no tantrums.

Then, as one of the final elements, they weighed the car. The Dyno program had mandated it had to be less than 3,800 pounds, not including the weight of the driver, to get to that hallowed 230 mph. But when they put it on the scale, they discovered it weighed 71 pounds over that magical 3,800 number.

This was a real problem. They had been economical weight-wise when deciding what to put in their super machine. Now it was so tight, that anything they took off would have an undue effect on something else. With that came the danger that the whole thing would snowball into negative territory.

It all came down to numbers: If they wanted the 900 horsepower, to reach the mythical speed of 230 mph, they needed to lose 71 pounds.

But where?

It was Mikey who unwittingly came up with the solution. He had been climbing around in the back seat of the car, trying to find something they could jettison to make it lighter, when he happened to say, "This backseat is so small, even I'd have a hard time getting laid in it."

It hit them all at once. Why did a car like this even need a backseat? It wasn't like it was going to be used for double dates.

It took them another twenty-four hours to take out the backseat, along with all its braces and the heavy floorboard it had been sitting on. But once they filled in the empty space with yet more carbon fiber sheets, they weighed the car, and it came in at 3,794 pounds.

The Dyno computer program loved the result. They ran the program three times and each time it indicated that if everything stayed the same, they would have their 230 mph once the car made it out onto the road.

When they opened the doors to the garage that morning, it was barely 5:00 a.m.

Still, they rustled up some more beer and bought breakfast sandwiches from McDonald's to really celebrate. But when they sat down in the squeaky office chairs for their congratulatory breakfast, each one of them leaned back just to clear his head and wound up falling asleep.

The sandwiches grew cold and the beer got warm, but it didn't matter.

The weeks of work, the long nights, looking up from the welding machine to see the sun rising. Trash cans full of empty energy drink cans and power bar wrappers.

Their work was done.

And finally, they could rest.


	6. Chapter 6

Manhattan was glowing brighter than the fantastic city of Oz.

Lights, buildings, people, cars, movement everywhere. The center of the universe—all less than an hour's drive from Mount Kisco.

While it might have seemed a million miles away for some residents of that small upstate town, at least a handful of them had made the trip down here tonight.

On the corner of West 51st Street and 6th Avenue, its entrance practically hidden between two empty storefronts, there was an art gallery that was so exclusive, so upper end, it didn't even have a name. It was meant to be a magical place, designed to instill wonder and awe, and when all the bells and whistles were in gear, for the most part, it worked. The high walls, the subtle lighting, the muted tones, the barely perceptible pulsing soundtrack. On special nights, a very fine mist would be released from the ceiling and would very gently rain down onto the gallery. It gave everything a golden sheen without getting anything wet, the droplets like little pieces of jewelry falling from the sky, or at least from the rafters.

This was one of those special nights.

* * *

The no-name space was filled to capacity. Several hundred of New York City's rich and powerful were rubbing elbows and drinking Brut Gold champagne. An invitation to this happening had been extremely hard to get—other events in the city this night paled in comparison.

At the stroke of midnight, those attending had their attention steered to a fantastic 3-D holographic program projected in the center of the room. Through spinning, moving drawings of mechanical designs and schematics, they were presented with the inner workings of the "last Shelby Mustang" come to life. The engine, the chassis, the interior, the wheels. Each component had not just been designed, the ghostly, disembodied narration claimed, but had been hand-sculpted in a way to fit together, altogether perfectly. And many of them were parts that were built only to exist within this fantastic machine alone, never to be made again.

Those gathered were appropriately enthralled, but there was more. When the narration concluded, the holograph began spinning faster, and suddenly it was like something ethereal was being born right before their eyes. This birth was represented by the image of a galloping stallion slowly transforming itself into the Mustang-inspired supercar.

The crowd applauded lustily, but still, the best was yet to come. At the same moment the horse morphed into the 3-D car, a curtain lifted, a fanfare came from nowhere and suddenly before their eyes was the magical car itself. The last Shelby Mustang. The Ford Supercar GT, displayed like a work of art, surrounded by plush velvet ropes.

Paparazzi camera flashes lit up the crowded room—the strobes of bright light bounced off the descending mist, now transforming them into millions of tiny emeralds, floating down, silently cascading onto the Mustang below.

It was like a psychedelic experience, without the drugs.

As intended, the crowd was beside itself with wonder.

* * *

In one corner of the room, though, looking very out of place and by no means caught up in the wonderfulness of it all, were Raph and Casey. Both were dressed up, sort of. Casey was wearing an overly large jacket, a too-tight dress shirt, and even a tie, though its knot was done all wrong.

Raph looked no better. He'd borrowed a suit from his father's closet, one that looked like it was from the mid-eighties. He and Casey had spent an hour before the show opened figuring out how to remove its massive shoulder pads without tearing any of the outer material.

They were extremely uncomfortable. Manhattan was like another world to them. It was a big, noisy, expensive place that they never had any reason to go to, grand as it seemed to be. As soon as they'd stepped off the Metro-North train in Penn Station earlier that day, both of them would have given anything to be somewhere else.

Mikey and Donnie weren't faring much better. They were standing next to the velvet ropes surrounding the supercar, also dressed in ill-fitting suits, a sea of beautiful people swirling around them. To them, the guests were like a different kind of species altogether, graceful and flowing, but plastic—and no matter what Donnie and Mikey did, no matter how they stood or how they talked, they just couldn't blend in. They were sticking out like sore thumbs.

Donnie in particular felt out of place and lost. While he was proud of what they had done with the Super Mustang, this was not his turf. He couldn't stop thinking about the shop and the future, and that alone filled him with negative, brooding thoughts that were enough to dishearten him.

He was so low that even at the very moment his supercar was being introduced, he caught himself thinking that he'd never felt so alone.

But then he met her.

April O'Neil.

When Donnie first spotted her walking across the room toward him, it was suddenly like she was the only person in the room who was in color—everyone else had turned to black-and-white. She was beautiful. Red haired. Well-dressed. And she moved with such confidence and grace; that in itself was a thing of beauty.

She reached the spot where they were standing, gave them both a visual going-over, and then asked, "So, this car—how fast does it go?" Her voice was like silk and very sexy.

"Ah… Um…" he cleared his throat and said, "Fast," just barely croaking out the word. He looked down, flustered.

"Very fast," Mikey added, shooting a large grin at the look on his brothers face.

But the beauty was skeptical. It showed on her face, and especially on her lips.

"Aren't all Mustangs fast?" she asked.

"This car was built by Ford," Mikey said, recalling words from the gallery's press release. "And reimagined by Carroll Shelby, the greatest performance car builder in American history."

"But, Mikey," Donnie interrupted with a smirk, "that means nothing to her. Can't you tell? I'm sure she's not from around here. And I doubt that she has any idea who Mr. Shelby is. No offense," Donnie said with a blush.

Mikey grinned again, thought a moment, but then concluded boastfully, "Well, we finished it. Our shop was the one that made a supercar out of it."

"Why is it so fast, though?" April shot back at him.

Mikey smiled and went off script.

"Nine hundred horsepower," he said. "Pure stroke and power."

Donnie had to laugh at Mikey's exuberance—his little brother.

But still she was not impressed.

"Is that a lot?" she asked. "Nine hundred horsepower, I mean?"

Mikey couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Are you kidding?" he asked her.

Donnie intervened again. "Relax, Mikey," he said.

He turned to the (drop dead gorgeous) red head.

"Uh, ma'am, not to sound rude but, this isn't a car you can just buy at the mall," he said. "Trust me when I say it's one of a kind."

Still she seemed confused.

"Can I see the engine?" she asked innocently.

Mikey popped the hood with pleasure. Donnie raised it so she could see beneath.

"Huh . . ." she said, studying the engine closely, "5.8-liter. Aluminum block. Supercharger. Racing headers. Nice, actually . . ."

Donnie just stared at her. He was speechless. Mikey, though, grinned.

"Gotta admit," he said to her, "I wasn't expecting that."

She moved just a bit closer to him.

"From a woman, you mean?" she asked. "Or is it because I'm a red head? Mr. Shelby's first Cobra was built using a car called an AC Ace Bristol—manufactured in England. But . . . you knew that, right?"

Mikey fell speechless. There was nothing he could say to her at that moment that would have made any sense.

"Life can be full of surprises," she told him with a wink.

Mikey piped up again. "I find life to be full of people who think they're smart just because they have an accent."

She turned toward him. "Is that right?" she asked.

"You ever watch Piers Morgan?" he asked back.

She giggled, just a little, then turned back to Donnie.

"Is this how you guys do it?" she asked. "Is that your act? You're kind of tough and quiet and he cracks the jokes?"

Again, Donnie was at a loss for words. It didn't help that he just couldn't stop staring at her.

But then a dark shadow appeared over them. The lights in the hall seemed to go dim. The cascading emerald mist lost its glow.

Suddenly Sid Jones was there, injecting himself into the conversation.

"Hi, April," he said.

Donnie's heart shattered as the pieces fell into his new shoes. Why in the world would these two know each other?

"Three million is way too much for this car, Mr. Jones," April told him directly.

"But that's what it costs," Sid replied. "Let's see what Bradford thinks."

"I am what Bradford thinks," she insisted. "And Ingram thinks it's worth two million at the most."

Sid shook his head. "Sorry, three million is the number."

"But three is absurd," she said. "And everyone here knows it. They loved the presentation—but why do you think nobody's bid on it yet?"

Sid didn't miss a beat. "There's still plenty of time for that. Plus, it's the best car I've driven since Indy—"

But then Mikey interrupted again. He saw a wrong and had to right it. That's just the way he was.

"You've never driven this car," he told Sid dismissively. "Donnie's had the keys the whole time."

April smirked. "You want me to plug my ears and turn around while you guys get on the same page?"

Mikey laughed at her joke. But Sid was staring daggers at him.

Still she continued her assault. "What's the top speed?" she asked Sid directly.

"One eighty," Sid replied—but Donnie answered at the same exact moment, except he said, "two thirty . . ."

April looked authentically surprised. "Two hundred and thirty miles per hour?"

Sid tried to explain. "He's talking about a theoretical top speed," he said, rather desperately.

She pointed to Donnie. "I know that he doesn't really talk much," she said. "But let's see if Mr. Strong and Silent can be less silent."

"She'll go two thirty," Donnie said simply.

"But the top NASCAR speed ever was two twenty-eight," she told him.

"This car is faster," Donnie replied calmly.

Finally she stopped talking for a moment. A wide smile lit up her face.

"Okay," she said, "eight o'clock tomorrow up in your neck of the woods at Shepperton. You get anything close to two thirty out of this car, Bradford will buy it on the spot."

Suddenly, Sid was excited again. "For three million?"

April giggled again. God, Donnie loved her giggle. "Give or take a million," she said. "Mostly take."

With that, she smiled, stole a look back at Donnie, and walked away.

All three of them watched her go. But Sid was fuming.

"Two thirty," he growled at Donnie once she was out of earshot. "Are you fucking crazy? What if I can't get the car up to that speed?!"

"You can't," Donnie told him simply. "But I can. So I'll drive."

Sid could barely control his anger. While their collaboration to create the Super Shelby had been a success, mostly because Sid hadn't interfered with the building process, ever since the project had been completed, he'd been the same old Sid. Asshole, douche bag, and tool.

As proof of this, in a low, threatening voice, he said to Donnie, "Don't even think about driving that car . . . and I mean, ever."

* * *

A good example of just how affluent some residents of the Mount Kisco area were could be found about ten miles east of town.

It was called the Shepperton Motor Club, but essentially it was a private racetrack. While its owners were always quick to point out that it was more than just a place for the mega-rich to race their mega-expensive cars—that it was also a resort, a training ground, and a retreat—the truth was, in these things, size mattered. And Shepperton was nearly twice the size of the Mount Kisco country club, that rattrap closer to town.

In addition to all those other amenities, Shepperton boasted a 4.2-mile track that snaked its way through 175 acres of strategically placed woods, finely mowed lawns, and low grassy shoulders. It featured many grand corners, built with the great European tracks in mind, and had more than a mile and a half of straightaways, four hundred feet of elevation changes, and twenty-two turns, including three hairpins.

Membership there was ultra-exclusive; only about 1 percent of the 1 percent could get in, and the dues ran into the high six figures. Anyone owning what would be considered less than a typical supercar would be best off trying to get their kicks somewhere else.

This was why Donnie despite his love for all things cars and racing, had never been past its gates.

Until now.

The day had dawned bright and fiery, covering the private racetrack with bloodred colors. Donnie and Mikey were the first to arrive. Passing through the security check as invited members of Sid Jones they drove slowly up the winding road leading to the main field.

"I've died and gone to heaven," Mikey whispered on seeing the facilities, which included rows of well-maintained private garages, equipment buildings, and fuel houses. "I've always wondered what this place looked like up close."

"Me, too," Donnie sighed.

They rolled the Mustang off the flatbed truck, handling it with the utmost care. Once done, they both took a good look around.

"Where is everybody?" Mikey asked, checking the time.

"I guess we're early," Donnie said.

He was glad for this—he wanted some time to think about what would come next.

He walked over to the Mustang and ran his hand along its roofline. He knew every inch of the supercar—every part, every gasket, every nut, screw, and bolt. The Super Mustang really was a work of art. He was proud of it, and proud of his brothers and Casey for doing such a great job. Then he looked out onto the track. It was untouched so far for the day. Glistening. Inviting.

Dewdrop perfect.

Mikey knew Donnie well. He studied his older brother as Donnie took turns admiring the car and then glancing out on the empty racetrack. Mikey could almost hear the wheels spinning in Donnie's head. He knew what he was thinking.

"Donnie?" he said to him. "Donnie . . ."

But Donnie didn't reply.

So Mikey walked up beside him and looked out on the track as well.

Then he said, "You've got to do it, bro."

* * *

Not a minute later, Donnie was behind the wheel of the Shelby Mustang, tearing around the racetrack.

He went through the first big turn at 180 mph—but that was just the beginning. He and his car were just warming up.

He shifted up to sixth gear, came out of the turn, and stomped on the accelerator. The speedometer began climbing.

. . .190 . . . 200 . . . 210 . . .

A moment later he was rocketing down the first straightaway at an ungodly speed—exactly what the supercar had been designed to do.

Now it was up to him to prove his claims were true.

He went into the next turn high on the bank. That it cost him a few extra moments to take the longer line didn't bother him. This was all about building speed. Coming off the high bank, he would achieve a slingshot effect—or so he hoped. He needed all the velocity he could get so he could crank the Mustang up to the magic 230 mph on the next straightaway, before he ran out of road again.

Mikey was standing alone back in the pits near the high turn. Donnie caught a glimpse of him in the microsecond it took to go by. He just barely saw that Mikey had his hands up to his ears, trying to block out the noise of the Super Mustang's super engine.

 _That's a good sign,_ he thought.

Then Donnie hit the straightaway and put one eye on his speedometer.

It began to creep above 220 . . . 222 . . . 223 . . .

Back in the pits, Mikey had taken his hands away from his ears, only to hear someone screaming.

He turned to see Sid running toward him like a madman. He was pointing wildly at the Mustang as it rocketed around the next turn.

"Stop him!" Sid was screaming at Mikey. "Goddammit! Stop him!"

* * *

Two minutes later, Donnie pulled into the pit area and climbed out of the Mustang. He was smiling broadly, a rarity.

But then Sid appeared, and the smile was gone.

"What the fuck are you doing, Hamato?!" Sid screamed at him. "You don't own this car! You don't get to joyride in it!"

Donnie kept his cool. He just walked away from him.

"Top speed's a little over two thirty," he called over his shoulder to Sid. "We did it."

But Sid wasn't really listening. He grabbed Donnie, his fist reared back ready to punch him. But Donnie was much quicker. Years of ninjustu also helped. He caught Sid's arm and held it firm, making any punch impossible. Still, they were just seconds away from a major brawl.

Suddenly, a female voice rose above the fray.

"According to this . . ." the voice said.

It was enough to freeze Sid and Donnie in place. They looked up to see April, as beautiful as ever, holding up a radar gun.

"According to this," she said again, "it's true . . . Donnie hit two thirty-nine, actually . . ."

A man in an expensive suit was standing next to her. He had binoculars around his neck.

He was Chris Bradford, filthy rich, playboy-ish, a ranking member at Shepperton, and the owner of many high-performance cars.

"That was some driving," Bradford said to Donnie. "And that's one hell of a car."

Donnie smiled sheepishly and said, " Heh, thank you."

He looked at the Super Mustang again and then back at the small group in the pits.

"And it's gonna cost me three million?" he asked.

Sid looked over at April and then back at Bradford.

"Yes, sir," Sid said. "It is."

"Two point seven . . ." April piped up.

Sid looked back at her with dark eyes. But she had no problem staring him down.

Bradford broke the stalemate. "If Miss O'Neil says it's worth two point seven," he said. "I'll pay two point seven . . . take it or leave it."

It was official just a few minutes later.

Bradford wrote Sid a check for $2.7 million without blinking an eye. Then, to celebrate his purchase, he put on a racing helmet, got behind the wheel of the Mustang and roared away.

This should have been a special moment for all involved, but Sid ruined that. He was still ready to kill Donnie.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he half screamed at him again. "If you had wrecked that car—or blown the engine, or anything, this whole deal would have been fucked."

Donnie remained cool. "But none of that happened," he replied casually. "And we sold the car, didn't we? I thought that was the whole point."

But then Mikey butted in. "You never could have gotten that car to two thirty. Even on a track. Only Donnie could do that—and that's why the guy bought it."

But Sid was still glaring at Donnie. This wasn't about money. This was about ego—and Sid's was supersized.

"You think you're a better driver than me, Hamato?" he hissed at Donnie.

But before Donnie could reply, Mikey butted in again.

"I know he's a better driver than you," he told Sid.

Sid suddenly turned on Mikey.

"You know, I'm about done with you," he said angrily, taking a step in Mikey's direction.

Donnie was immediately in Sid's face.

"Back off, Sid," he warned him.

But Sid would not relent. He was fuming.

"I'll beat you on a road," he seethed at Donnie. "On a track, on the dirt, or anywhere else you want to race. You name it, Hamato."

But Mikey laughed in Sid's face.

"Last time I checked," he said, "Donnie beat you every time you raced in high school."

"Well, a lot's happened since high school, little man," Sid spit back at him.

Mikey straightened himself up to his full diminutive height—but Donnie interceded once again. He was trying hard to play peacemaker.

"You're the man," he told Sid. "You're the pro. Okay? You got nothing to prove to me. Let's just move on."

But Sid was just not buying it. The veins in his head looked like they were all going to pop.

"No," he said. "Let's race. If you win, I give you my seventy-five-percent cut of the Mustang deal. You lose, you give me your twenty-five percent."

Donnie froze. The prospect of such big money gave him pause—and stopped him from thinking clearly, at least for the moment. He couldn't help it—$2.7 million? That kind of money could change everything for him.

"Well," he said, "that would make it interesting."

Before he could say another word, Sid told him, "I'll pick you guys up at your shop, four o'clock . . . Just be ready."

With that, Sid stormed away.

But Donnie was confused.

"What are we racing?" he called after Sid. "And where?"

But Sid never replied.


	7. Chapter 7

The most expensive house inside the Mount Kisco city limits was an enormous Tudor-style mansionlocated in an east side gated community known as Guard Hill.

It was late afternoon when the black Mercedes sedan sped past this mansion's wrought iron gates and roared up the long driveway that led to the grand home.

No sooner had the Mercedes stopped at the front door than Mikey excitedly jumped out of the backseat. Sid and Donnie climbed out of the front seats with somewhat less enthusiasm and joined him.

"Dudes, that's the biggest house I've ever seen," Mikey exclaimed.

"It's my uncle's place," Sid said. "He's in Monaco or someplace."

Donnie and Mikey continued to gape at the mansion. As with the Shepperton Motor Club, they had heard of this place, but had never gotten any closer to it than driving by its front gate.

Sid noted their fascination and was ready to take advantage of it. He put on a pair of leather driving gloves he'd taken from his pocket, then pushed them along.

"C'mon," he told them. "I want to show you something."

Sid had been virtually silent since picking them up; Donnie didn't know what he was up to, exactly. They followed him around the side of the mansion and up to a pristine parking garage. It was almost as impressive as the main house.

"Get ready to piss your pants," Sid told them. He dramatically pushed a button on the side of the building, and three garage doors opened automatically.

Inside, sitting in separate bays, were three of the most fantastic cars Donnie had ever seen. They were Koenigsegg Regeras. Designed and built in Sweden, they were aptly known as "hypercars", and only 80 were ever built. Ultra sleek and very low to the ground, they looked like they'd been conceived by someone one hundred years in the future, or perhaps an ET. A wealthy ET. Extremely rare and extremely expensive, their tires alone cost tens of thousands of dollars. With modifications, a complete racing car could run more than $5 million.

The mansion was past history to Donnie and Mikey now. They had only heard of these incredible cars, and seen photographs. To be in their presence was almost overwhelming.

"These aren't even legal in the United States," Sid told them. "They've got no registration, no plates—so technically, they don't exist."

Donnie didn't want to believe what he thought was happening.

"Why are you showing these to us?" he asked Sid. "Just to prove your family has money?"

Sid just laughed at him. "No, you hick," he said. "This is what we're going to race in. Winner takes the two point seven million."

"And there's three of them," Mikey said, still awestruck.

"This is what the real pros drive," Sid went on. "Zero to one twenty in six seconds. Top speed —well, who knows? Are you afraid of that much power, Hamato?"

Mikey laughed at the comment. "But Sid," he said. "I thought you didn't go faster than one eighty?" Sid finally snapped. He grabbed Mikey by the jacket and roughly pulled him over.

"You got a big mouth for someone who's just a fan," he growled at Mikey.

"Then let me race," Mikey spat right back at him.

Once again, Donnie had to step in. He pulled the two combatants apart.

"Okay, happy to have you, Mikey," Sid said. "Like you said, we've got three cars. So one of them is for you."

Mikey couldn't believe it. "Awesome!" he shouted. "I'm in."

But Donnie didn't like this. These cars were way out of their league, Sid included. And while he knew he'd have to go up against his rival, if not for the $2.7 million, then only to shut him up, involving Mikey in the race sounded a little too dangerous.

"It's better if you sit this one out," Donnie told his brother. "The others would never believe you did it anyway."

But Sid laughed darkly. "Let him be a big boy, to match his big mouth," he told Donnie, pointing to the three cars. "We've got three identical Regeras. It's an even playing field. So, let's do it."

Donnie was still trying to process just what kind of insanity was taking place. He'd had no idea this was what Sid had in mind.

Sid held out a hat. It contained three sets of keys.

"Finish line is the end of the bridge over Route 684," he told them. "It should be lit up by the time we get there."

Mikey reached into the hat and pulled out a key. Sid drew next, then Donnie.

Mikey excitedly pointed his key toward the Koenigseggs and the orange one on the end lit up. He hustled over to it; Donnie was right on his heels.

He said to Mikey, "Listen to me . . . Don't mess with him. Let me race him. You stay out of it and just go for a nice ride."

But Mikey just shook his head.

"Relax, D," he said. "You know I'm a good driver. I got this." But Donnie was still concerned for his brother.

"You've got to go easy," he warned him. "Your Camaro has what—480 horse? This thing has like 1150 . . ." Donnie shook his head again. Even though the idea of racing a car with that much horsepower excited him to no end, he was getting a bad feeling about this.

But then Mikey turned back to him.

"This is my vision, bro," he said. "This is how I saw you winning the De Leon. You beat Sid. You take his car and win. Plus, if we both beat him, he'll have to move out of the country or something . . ."

Donnie smiled. He really loved his little brother. And it was hard to argue with him. "Okay, but just play it smart," he told Mikey.

Mikey gave him a thumbs-up and then jumped into the hypercar. "Time to rock and roll!" he yelled.

* * *

The intersection of Routes 76 and 184 was about a mile outside downtown Mount Kisco. It was the crossing of two little-used roads and one of many approaches the locals could use to get on Interstate 684.

It was late afternoon now and quiet. A car was stopped at the intersection, waiting for the light to change. Meanwhile another car was approaching from Route 184, traveling in the slow lane.

Suddenly a loud roar shattered the peaceful scene. A second later Sid's Koenigsegg appeared out of nowhere. It squealed into the intersection, causing a storm of dust and exhaust, violently drifting sideways and perfectly splitting the two civilian cars.

His sudden appearance caused one of the civilian cars to nearly clip his rear end. At the same moment, and for the same reason, the second car slammed into the first, spinning it like a child's top and throwing it onto the median.

Sid was able to avoid being caught up in the collision. He regained control of the Koenigsegg hypercar and pushed his accelerator to the floor. His engine screaming, he rocketed away with just minimal damage to his left rear taillight.

A split second later, Mikey roared into the intersection. Seeing the melee Sid had caused, he was forced to drift way out to avoid colliding with the two hapless civilian cars. His maneuver successful, he took off after Sid.

Both Koenigseggs now accelerated to 145 mph and roared through a bending stretch of roadway with lakes on either side.

Mikey was barely able to contain himself. He was pressing the gas harder and harder, all the while shouting at the top of his lungs. He'd never driven anything even close to the Koenigsegg. For him, this was something from one of his visions.

They flew by a civilian car doing the 55 mph speed limit. It was as if it was standing still. Mikey zoomed right up on Sid's bumper and was enjoying every second of it. Donnie was following close behind. He'd fallen back intentionally so he could keep his eyes on Mikey. As a result, he still had some ground to make up. But at the same time, he was only a few seconds behind both of them.

His eyes were glued on Mikey as the three hypercars approached a turn. He saw his friend go wide, so Mikey started his own turn early, sliding inside, half on, half off the roadway's shoulder. Accelerating at exactly the right moment, Donnie came out of the turn just a little ahead of Mikey, putting him just five car lengths behind Sid.

The three hypercars were now on a long, rolling part of the roadway, passing civilian vehicles like they were frozen in place. Zooming inside and outside, on the shoulder one moment, skirting the median the next, the trio of Koenigseggs were now doing 180 mph.

Suddenly, up ahead, a Chevy pickup truck came into view. Its elderly driver was barely going the speed limit, and was listening to his radio at high volume.

But when he glanced into his rearview mirror, he did a double take. An instant later, Sid's Koenigsegg blew past him.

The driver couldn't believe his eyes. The hypercar went by him in a flash. He looked at his own speed—just under 65 mph. When he looked up again, Donnie and Mikey had roared by him as well.

The three hypercars entered a dead straightaway. Sid was still in the lead, but Donnie was right behind him, with Mikey right on Donnie's bumper.

They flew over a crown in the highway, each Koenigsegg going airborne for a moment before coming back to earth. In front of them now, just a quarter mile away, was another intersection. At that moment, a large truck, pulling a horse trailer, was crossing through.

The three Koenigseggs were traveling in excess of 200 mph now. At that speed, all three would hit the truck in five seconds.

The truck driver saw them coming. Not quite believing what was happening, he panicked and slammed on the brakes, blocking the intersection.

Sid was the first to hit his own brakes, his Koenigsegg fishtailing wildly from side to side. Donnie saw Sids brake lights and reacted instantly. But he didn't hit his brakes. Rather, he laid on the accelerator and made an aggressive move around the truck. The maneuver avoided a collision, but an instant later, he found himself on the other side of the highway's median, going the wrong way, and heading right into oncoming traffic.

Meanwhile, Sid was trying to get around the back end of the horse trailer, but Mikey was too close on his tail. They made their move at the same time, Sid's nose almost clipping Mikey's rear end. Mikey reacted immediately, swerving wide. He avoided colliding with Sid, but he was suddenly sent spinning onto the grass.

For that one long moment, Mikey came very close to losing it. But with another sharp turn of the wheel and a boot of the gas, he was quickly back on the pavement and running straight again.

All this bizarre high-speed maneuvering had put Donnie in the lead—the only problem being he was traveling on the wrong side of the highway. He was madly weaving back and forth, getting out of the way of oncoming trucks, cars, and vans, all while still going 215 mph.

All the while, he was desperately searching for an opening in the median, a spot where he could get back on the right side of the road. But the median strip was lined with trees, rocks, and bushes— and no openings. He had no choice but to press on in the wrong direction.

Over on the right side of the road, and with very little traffic ahead of them, Sid and Mikey had accelerated up to 210 mph. This allowed both cars to gain serious ground on Donnie. Realizing what was happening, Donnie buried his gas pedal as well. But then he saw another car coming straight at him.

The driver swerved before Donnie could, crashing over the median strip. Immediately losing control in the high grass, the civilian slid through a clump of trees . . . and right into the path of Sid and Mikey.

Luckily, their instincts took over. Mikey swerved inside the careening car while Sid went to the outside. It was close, but their driving skills got them by the hapless driver in a flash.

Donnie was watching all this from the other side of the highway. Finally, he spotted an opening in the median strip ahead. With a quick jerk of his steering wheel, he slid through the gap and was suddenly back on the right side of the road.

But another civilian car that had swerved to avoid Donnie was now right in Mikey's path. Mikey went left and got around the car, but then it moved over and went right into Sid's path. Sid hit his brakes again, swerving wildly to the right. He avoided a collision, but when the smoke cleared, he found himself in last place, looking at the butt ends of Donnie's and Mikey's hypercars.

The three Koenigseggs roared up to another intersection. This one was clear. With incredible precision, all three drifted onto Freedom Parkway. They were now in the final stretch of their race.

The parkway was conveniently devoid of traffic. Up ahead, all three drivers could see a bridge all lit up.

They were roaring along now at their fastest speeds yet. Donnie was in front, Mikey right on his bumper, with Sid riding Mikey's bumper in turn. Maintaining this tight bunch, all three accelerated to an incredible 250 mph.

Mikey looked up to his rearview mirror to see Sid drafting off him. This told him Sid was about to make one last desperate move before the race was over and he lost $2 million. But Mikey was ready for him.

The bridge was right up ahead, and their speed was now more than 260 mph. Suddenly Sid made his move, trying to pass Mikey on the outside.

But it was not a clean maneuver.

And Sid violently clipped the back of Mikey's car.

Suddenly Mikey was airborne, and not by a few inches. All four of his tires left the ground, hurtling him ten feet above the pavement.

Still moving at tremendous speed, Mikey landed hard, hitting the bridge's concrete foundation nose first. The impact caused the hypercar to begin a series of sickening cartwheels. Mikey tumbled over and over, smashing through a light pole, and then against a cement barrier. The multimillion dollar car was disintegrating with each bounce, leaving a cloud of glass, metal, and rubber behind.

Donnie saw it all. Looking through his rearview mirror, he saw Mikey's car, now in flames, careen off a bridge support, go clear over the railing, and disappear below.

Donnie stood on his brakes. Spinning the steering wheel at the same time, he turned 180 degrees in an instant. He was just seconds from winning the brutal $2.7 million race—but suddenly all thoughts of the money were gone. He went back for his brother instead.

As he did so, Sid blew right past him and crossed the other end of the bridge, winning the race.

Donnie was at the crash site in seconds. He jumped out of the Koenigsegg and slid down the hundred-foot embankment to the edge of the river.

Mikey's car was there, but it was barely recognizable. It was upside down and being consumed by flames, its four wheels swaying as if suffering from compound fractures.

Donnie could see Mikey inside, his lifeless body just barely visible through the fire. He tried to reach inside to grab him, but the heat was too intense. He whipped off his jacket, putting it up to shield his face and hands, and tried again—and again. And again.

"Mikey!" Donnie screamed from the depths of his soul. "Oh, fuck . . . _**MIKEY!**_ _"_ But it was no good.

The flames were just too much.

The next thing Donnie knew, he was surrounded by flashing lights coming from the bridge above. The sound of sirens filled his ears. There were police and firefighters everywhere.

Mikey's body was in front of him, covered with a tarp. Some EMTs and the coroner were struggling to move it over the rocks and up the embankment.

Another EMT was beside Donnie, trying to treat his burns, but Donnie was numb all over. He could only stare out at the river and watch the water go by.

* * *

 _FIVE DAYS LATER_

Inside a smallgraveyard on the west side of Mount Kisco, a group of people all dressed in blackwere gathered around a freshly dug grave.

A priest's words drifted above the sad scene.

"Fear not," he intoned, "for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you. Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

Most everyone in the crowd was crying or fighting off tears. But Angel was particularly distraught. Her close friend, Mikey, was now deceased and about to be lowered into the ground.

For comfort in this difficult hour, she was leaning on the shoulder of another mourner—Sid Jones.

"Behold," the priest went on, "all those who were incensed against you shall be ashamed and disgraced. They shall be nothing. You shall seek them and not find them—those who contended with you. Those who war against you shall be as nothing. For I will hold your right hand, saying to you, 'Fear not. I will help you.'"

Casey and Raph were also there. Raph was taking it very hard. When the priest finished the final prayer, Raph shut his eyes and tried to breathe deep, but it didn't help. Nothing helped. His brother was gone.

Leo, on the other hand, was staring right across the open grave, leveling his eyes on Sid.

It was an icy glare, chilling to the bone. And to Leo, the fact that Sid refused to look back at him said it all.

* * *

 _NEW YORK STATE POLICE HEADQUARTERS_

The interragation roomwas cold and dank. The walls were plain, dull green, with old paintchipping off just about everywhere. Everything smelled of spilled coffee, cigarette smoke, and sweat.

Donnie was sitting in a squeaky metal chair, an old wooden desk in front of him. It seemed like he'd been inside the damp, smelly room for days. He couldn't really tell. Time as he knew it had lost all meaning for him.

His entire world had changed the moment Mikey died. It was like he was walking and talking and existing by some kind of weird remote control. Whenever he closed his eyes all he could see was Mikey burning to death in the crashed hypercar. The flames, the smoke, the noise, the river water rushing by. Donnie knew nothing would ever be the same.

But the real blow came later on that awful day. That's when the police charged _him_ with killing Mikey.

Two state police detectives were sitting across the table from him now. They'd been questioning him for hours, days—again, Donnie really didn't know. He was just numb, inside and out.

"Okay, let's go through this one more time, Mr. . . . Hamato" one of the detectives started again. "The report still shows this fatality was caused by a two-car accident."

The second detective piped up.

"Tell us again where you claim this mysterious third vehicle was," he said.

Donnie began speaking again—but it sounded like someone else's voice. He'd told them the exact same story more than a dozen times already.

"My car was about two lengths out in front," he said wearily, pointing to a diagram of the accident scene sitting on the old wooden table. "Mikey was there. Sid Jones was right behind him. Sid hit Mikey's back bumper hard and at an angle—and Mikey lost control of his car. That's how it happened. Sid caused the crash."

The detectives shook their heads. "But Sid has two solid witnesses," one said. "And they both say they were with him all day and the whole night. So there's no way he could have been there to cause that crash."

But again the detectives' words were barely registering with Donnie. Try as he might, he couldn't think clearly about anything else—except the fact that Mikey was gone.

The cops were relentless, though. They took his lack of feeling as a sign of weakness—and a symptom that he was lying about what had really happened on the bridge.

"The owner of Jones Motors reported _two_ Koenigseggs were stolen last week," the other detective said harshly. "That's two cars, not three. His report also says those two cars were stolen seven minutes before police arrived at the scene of the crash."

Donnie momentarily snapped out of his stupor.

"The owner of Jones Motors is Sid's uncle," he told the cops. "He's lying. They're _all_ lying. Sid did it. Sid was there."

"You're the only one who places Sid at the scene," the detective replied. "You got any other 'facts' you'd like to share?"

"There were three cars," Donnie insisted wearily. "Sid was there . . ."

The detectives exchanged glances. People lied to them every day; they were used to it, and in their own way, numb to it. They simply weren't buying Donnie's story.

"Then where's the third car?" one of them asked. "Wouldn't it be wrecked, too?" At that point, Donnie went back into his disembodied state.

"This isn't happening," he said to himself over and over. "This just isn't happening . . ."

* * *

The trial was a nightmare.

Donnie vowed early on just to tell the story straight, as it happened, blow by blow. And that's what he did, over and over, during endless hours of cross-examination.

But he was up against the powerful side of the Jones family, and they proved to be a formidable foe. No matter how many times he told the truth, the prosecutors put on rebuttal witnesses, all of whom were either in the Jones family's employ or were friends of theirs. These people lied under oath that Sid was nowhere near the scene of the accident, and that only two Koenigseggs could have been "stolen" that night because only two Koenigseggs were in the mansion's garage in the first place.

The third hypercar, the one Sid had been driving, had vanished. Donnie's lawyer tried to find documentation on its sale, its purchase price, and when it arrived in the United States, but failed on all three accounts. The only evidence available was on the purchase of two Koenigseggs by Sid's wealthy uncle. There was plenty of documentation for them: routing slips, delivery confirmations, shipping manifests.

Aided by all this, and the implication that the Jones were an upstanding family while Donnie was just a hard-edged grease monkey, the prosecutors were able to make the case that there were only two Koenigseggs in the garage that afternoon, that there were only two racing on that road, and that Mikey's car had been forced off the road, which led to his death. And the only one around who could have done it was Donnie.

The charge was vehicular manslaughter plus auto theft.

At one point, Donnie's attorney negotiated a deal where if Donnie pled guilty, he would get the charges reduced, and thus get a lighter sentence. But Donnie refused. He was innocent, and there was no way he was going to plead guilty to killing his brother when he didn't do it.

The crew from the garage showed up at the trial every day. Before every court session Tobey scanned the gallery and always found Casey, Raph and Leo sitting there in their bad suits and ill-fitting ties, giving him the thumbs-up and offering signs of encouragement. But even their moral support couldn't change the inevitable.

In all it only took three weeks. Donnie was found guilty on both counts and sentenced to three years in state prison.

It was devastating to hear the verdict read aloud. But it only got worse after that. Donnie and his brothers had spent so much money on the trial that they couldn't afford any kind of appeal. His brothers had sold their family's house, some family heirlooms, even Donnie's Impala. But it was all for nothing.

The day he walked into prison, he was broke, he was a convicted felon, and his father's business had been shut down.

The destruction of his life as he knew it was complete.

Donatello lost everything.


	8. Chapter 8

Donnie's first few days in prison were pure hell.

The loneliest sound he'd ever heard was the clank of the huge steel door shutting behind him the moment he walked inside.

 _Good-bye world_ , he thought. _Maybe forever._

He'd tried to psych himself up in the days and hours leading up to it. Tried to tell himself he'd be strong and that he could get through it—but he quickly realized nothing could prepare him for the nightmare he'd found himself in.

From when they took his clothes, to his delousing—or "douching," as it was known—to putting on his gray prison uniform, to when they finally put him in his cell and locked the door, none of it seemed real, and he just couldn't get over the feeling that it was actually happening to someone else. Then there were the chains.

No matter where he was those first few days, or what time, day or night, all he could hear were chains. Chain shackles dragging on the floor. Guards carrying chains to bind someone up. Other prisoners with chains hidden in their pants, to be used as weapons, on their way to give some "new meat" a beat down—or worse.

Chains . . . He even began to hear them in his sleep.

It took a few days for the cold reality of it all to sink in. The realization that his life was no longer his own. He was not allowed to do anything unless he was told to. Eat, sleep, shit, shave. Even flicking his cell's light switch on or off was forbidden.

Everything was regimented; everything was done their way. The lights came on at 5:00 a.m. Every prisoner had to be ready to leave his cell precisely five minutes later. A long, slow march down to the cafeteria followed, more chains dragging everywhere. Breakfast was usually tepid oatmeal or cold processed eggs. Each was equally bad.

Back to the cells for the mandatory count and, more often than not, a surprise search. New meat were always harassed by the guards. Getting one's cell tossed could be a daily or even hourly event.

Some kind of workday followed. Donnie had been assigned to the laundry. It was hot, smelly, disgusting duty, a place where the fouled sheets, towels, uniforms, socks, and underwear of 2,500 inmates was never-ending.

The only break was the long march down to lunch, which was just as awful as breakfast. Then more hot and sweaty work, until dinner, which was usually the worst meal of all.

Lights went out at 8:00 p.m., followed by a night of ear-piercing screams, demonic laughter, repulsive grunting—and more chains. Then, it started all over again at 5:00 a.m. the next day.

The idea was to take away every last bit of a person's physical freedom. And Donnie knew early on that once that was complete, his freedom to think would be taken next.

The prison was also an extremely dangerous place, as he soon found out. The guards weren't there to protect the inmates. It was clear from the beginning that was not how the System worked. The guards were more like onlookers, referees. Caretakers of the status quo. Many of them were corrupt, paid off by the prisoners or their families. Their main concern, then, was that no one on the inside rocked the boat. The System itself was run by the Lifers—gangs of murderers and rapists who had nothing to lose by beating and robbing new meat. Sadistic and psychotic, they pretty much had full run of the place, including access to anyone's cell or work area. An attack could come at anytime and in any place.

Most perverse was that this constant terror provided a kind of horrific stability to the place. Management through fear ruled within the prison walls—not guards, or guns, or billy clubs. Just plain, unadulterated fear.

And the newer you were to the System, the more dangerous it could be.

* * *

On his fifth day in, Donnie was washing his face in the shitter when he looked in the mirror to see another prisoner, a gang member, standing behind him, holding a machete.

He was giving Donnie the finger-across-his-throat sign. The meaning was clear: You're next. Later that day, another inmate came up to Donnie in the laundry and claimed he'd seen what had happened earlier. He offered to help Donnie out of the jam in return for some unspecified services Donnie could provide him in the future.

Donnie was smart enough to know he was being set up. Much to the man's surprise, he told the helpful inmate no thanks; he'd handle the situation himself. The man replied, "Okay—nice knowing you."

Later that night, Donnie heard the door to his cell open. It was supposed to be locked at 8:00 p.m., but obviously this was not a guard coming in to check on him.

Donnie was ready with the only weapon he had at his disposal: a sharpened pencil. He saw the glint of the machete drawing near and was never more scared in his life. But that's when his survival instincts, along with his Ninjutsu training, kicked in.

He aimed low and stuck his would-be assailant in the groin with the pencil. It went in deep and as smoothly as a knife through butter. The attacker doubled over from the unexpected preemptive strike, hitting the floor of the cell hard and conveniently cracking open his skull.

When the guards eventually arrived, they found the attacker curled up on the ground, bleeding profusely, with Donnie sitting calmly on the edge of his bunk.

When they asked what happened, Donnie told them, "He tripped."

He knew what would happen next. Though he was sure he'd gained some cred among those lowly prisoners who lived in daily fear of the System, he also knew he'd be a marked man by the Lifers.

The next day at breakfast, he walked up to the largest member of the machete man's gang and, without warning, started wailing on him with his fists and feet. To Donnie's good fortune, the man's weapon of choice, a doorknob carried in a sock, fell out of his pocket. Donnie picked it up and started thrashing him with that as well. The others in the machete gang stood back and let it happen. That was the way these things worked. It took Donnie less then minute to hammer his victim into unconsciousness.

When the guards arrived and saw what had happened, they were convinced Donnie was not someone who wanted to play within the System. He was immediately put in shackles and put in the Hole, prison slang for solitary confinement.

This was not like his cell, with bars and walls and a window. This was a stark concrete room, just five feet by eight feet. There was no bunk; just a metal slab. There was no toilet; just an open drain in the floor. There was no window; just three vertical slits in the door, and a slot at the bottom for meal trays.

There would be no reading material, no music, no pens, or paper, or photographs to hang or look at. There was nothing but the walls, the drain, and the metal slab.

When they closed the door on him, the guard said, "See you in six months."

After that, Donnie sat in the corner and shook violently and uncontrollably for hours. But he'd accomplished his goal. He was alone—with no one to bother him.

* * *

From that day on, he began preparing for what he hoped would be the second part of his life. He also came up with a plan.

Donatello was not a religious person, by any means. He'd never gone to church, never followed any one creed or even the spiritual beliefs that his father bestowed upon him and his brothers. He always looked at the logical side of things. But this was a different situation. So, he didn't know any prayers, other than the ordinary generic ones.

That didn't matter. For this, the longest two years of his life, in jail for killing his best friend, knowing full well he was innocent and that the guilty party was not just out there walking free but also banging his brothers ex-girlfriend . . .

For this, an ordinary prayer would not do.

For this, he needed to make up one of his own.

His meals arrived like clockwork every day. Pushed through the slot at the bottom of his door, they came with plastic utensils, all of which had to be accounted for when the tray was taken away.

One day Donnie broke one of the plastic knives in half and stuck the handle into a mash of leftover food. He was hoping no one would bother to check if the other half was still attached. He waited a week, but no one said a word.

He used this half of knife to painstakingly carve his prayer into the concrete wall, chip by chip, in a space right above the door. That way he could see it, read it anytime he wanted, and yet it would be invisible to the guards looking in on him.

He wrote his prayer just two or three words at a time, and only after much thought went into what would fit and what would not. Each word had to be perfect, because there was no chance for erasure. The concrete was unforgiving in that respect. Once he carved his letters into it, they were there to stay.

It took him more than two months to complete it, but in the end he was happy with it. In his mind, it was perfect; it said it all.

 _They took everything from me._

 _But I do not fear, for you are with me._

 _All those who defied me shall be ashamed and disgraced._

 _Those who wage war against me shall perish._

 _I will find strength and I will find guidance._

 _ **And I will triumph.**_

He recited the prayer at least a couple dozen times a day. On some days, even more.

* * *

He spent his time in isolation doing a regimen of his own.

Morning was devoted to push-ups, leg squats, various martial arts katas and other kinds of exercise, including many isometric drills he'd made up.

He'd been scrappy and fearless when he first went into prison. By the end of his first two months, he still had his lean frame, but whatever body fat he'd accumulated by drinking beer and eating junk food on the outside had been replaced by pure, solid muscle.

But he knew he would need more than just six-pack abs if his long-range plan were to succeed. So afternoons were reserved for doing mind exercises of a very specific order.

He would sit in his corner and put himself into a meditative trance and relive every car race he'd ever been in. From go-carts to shifter cars to his first street races. Every box race he'd driven in; every pull race he'd run out on I-684. Even that last fateful one with Sid and Mikey—he was able to conjure them up vividly and replay them again, over and over in his head.

He was able to recall every move he'd made, commit to memory every positive maneuver, and dwell especially on the ones that turned out to be wrong. He reviewed in his mind every part, gear, paddle, and switch of every vehicle he'd ever raced, from the shifter cars on, concentrating, of course, on his beloved Impala.

He was able to immerse himself in his memories, which were all he really had left. But he was able to learn from them—and that was the most important thing.

On special nights, and he did this sparingly, he would put himself into his trance and think about those few glorious moments he'd experienced that morning driving the Shelby Mustang at Shepperton. He always began this particular mind exercise by remembering everything exactly how it was that day. The weather, how the track looked. How Mikey was so excited, the large grin plastered on his face. How he brought the Shelby into that first turn wide so he could slingshot himself onto the straightaway. How he had reached and then surpassed that magic 230 mph number.

After many of those special sessions he would fall asleep sitting upright in his corner and dream about that special morning all over again.

Those hours, days, and months in the Hole strengthened him physically, but more important, they bulked him up mentally.

He knew that would be needed most of all for what lay ahead.

* * *

He spent a total of twenty-two months in the Hole, extended by his mouthing off to his guards at one point, and when he was caught, by design, stealing his plastic utensils.

When he was finally let out into the general population, he fell in with a bunch of fellow motorheads. Car thieves, mostly, they formed a substantial group and were pretty much left alone by the other gangs.

Just one day out of the Hole, he got a prison tattoo. It was simple. Written on his left forearm in the shape of a large heart, it read: "Michaelangelo – Until I see you again." His intention was to always have something there to remind him of his little brother, his friend. And this was it. He didn't care what people thought, or if they said the heart was "too girly". He didn't care. To him, it was perfect.

Then came that day, exactly one month before his release, when he got the letter from Raph, talking about that year's De Leon—and how Vinyl Scratch was looking for racers.

At that moment, Donnie knew it had all been worth it. Because suddenly, he was sure about what he'd been working for.

No one ever came to visit him while he was in prison. That's the way he'd wanted it. He didn't write any letters during the majority of his incarceration, either. Phone calls to Leo, Casey and Raph had gotten him by.

But the one letter he did write had been to Chris Bradford, the wealthy owner of the Super Shelby Mustang.

Donnie had started that letter out with the words, "You will think this is a strange request, but . . ." After that, the letters went back and forth furiously with Casey and Raph. The phone calls became more frequent, too. Something was building. His plan was moving full speed ahead.

When his last day finally came, Donnie didn't even read the prison release papers. He simply signed on the dotted line and pushed them back under the metal mesh window to the prison employee.

He looked different. Older, rougher—tougher. But he felt different, too. No more wasting time. No more whining about the bum deal he'd gotten. He had important things to do.

He picked up the bag holding his meager belongings and waited for the last barred door to open. Then he walked out into the sunlight and tasted freedom for the first time in three years.

Just outside the release gate, an old Ford pickup truck was waiting. Raph was behind the wheel.

He leapt out of the cab as soon as Donnie walked out. He gave Donnie a large bone-crushing hug, happy to see little brother again for the first time in three years. After they released, they both jumped into the truck.

"Where's Casey?" Donnie asked Raph simply.

"Already on the road with the Beast," Raph reported. "If your plan is going to work, he's going to need that head start."

"What about Leo?" Donnie asked.

Raph shook his head. "We still haven't convinced Fearless yet," he replied. "He went down another path. But we're still trying."

Raph turned the ignition key and started the old truck.

"But has the car come through?" Raph asked his brother. "That's the most important thing."

Donnie checked his watch. "We'll know in an hour."

"Okay," Raph said. "But we're cutting it a little close, don't you think?"

Donnie just shrugged and looked out the window, his thoughts already a million miles away. "Hey, Don," Raph said, bringing him back to reality. Donnie turned to his older brother.

"Good to see you out, little brother," Raph told him. Donnie just nodded, and almost smiled. It was good to be out.


	9. Chapter 9

Donnie and Raph reached their destination about an hour later.

It was an abandoned building located at 6565 Main Street, Mount Kisco.

Many of its windows had been broken and its doors busted in. Junk cars sat deteriorating in the parking lot; litter and trash were everywhere. The sign that once proudly read, "Hamato Motors Est. 1984" was hanging half off and had turned to rust.

The old garage. The place where they'd grown up. The place that had so many memories. It was gut-wrenching for Donnie to see it like this for the first time in three years.

And it got worse. Wrapped around the garage's front door was a stream of yellow tape festooned with orange stickers from the sheriff's department announcing the property had been put in foreclosure. For Donnie, this was just adding insult to injury.

He and Raph climbed out of the Ford pickup. They examined the thick chain that was keeping the garage's front door shut. The door's glass itself was dirty and smeared, the numerals "6565" barely readable anymore.

It was a sad moment for both of them.

"I heard they're turning it into a Taco Bell," Raph told him. "Just what Mount Kisco needs. More junk food."

Donnie tried to stay emotionless, but it was hard to do. His eyes grew misty as he said, "I'm just glad Father isn't alive to see this," he said. "It would have broken his heart."

Raph looked at him solemnly and patted his shoulder. "I'm sure it would have. But he also woulda fought tooth and nail to try to help you. I'm sure he woulda sold this place to get you outta jail."

Donnie stared at his brother before wiping his eyes and giving a small smile.

Donnie took a long look around, checking for cops. Certain the coast was clear, he kicked a small hole in the glass door. Wrapping his fist in his jacket, he kept punching the hole until it was big enough for them to squeeze through.

He was the first to step inside. He had to take it in slowly. This place—once jumping with business, the sound of tools working, paint being sprayed, always with either loud rap music playing over the bedlam or Vinyl's voice booming—now it was quiet and dark and a mess. This place that had been so special to him—first, working with his father and brothers, learning the trade, and then their utter triumph in building the Mustang—now . . . it was a place of vandalism. Thieves had broken in and stolen all the tools. The paint room was riddled with graffiti. Even the car lifts were gone. The inside looked even worse than the outside.

The photos that had been hanging on the wall had all fallen, their glass frames cracked or shattered completely. Some of the pictures had turned yellow and wrinkled. Others were gone altogether.

This was a snapshot of failure. Donnie had promised his father that he would keep the garage open, no matter what. Now it was like something found in a ghost town—a thing of the past.

 _So what about the future? Donnie_ thought, giving the place another long, sad look. Would it bebetter? _Could_ it be better?

He'd psyched himself up so much in prison, dreaming yet another dream, that he had been sky high. But looking at the dilapidated garage and how it had turned out, he suddenly wondered if he'd just been fooling himself all along. Would his grand plan be possible to pull off?

His answer came a second later.

There was a sudden, loud noise outside. The roar of a huge engine, the screeching of big tires— sounds that had not been heard anywhere near the Hamato Motors building in a long time.

A car had pulled into the parking lot. Silver ghost finish. Big wheels. Extremely sleek and sexy. A wave of smoke from its exhaust reached Donnie's nostrils, and he recognized it right away.

Only a little more than three years had gone by—but it might as well have been a lifetime.

It was the Mustang. The Shelby-designed supercar that they'd built here and sold to Bradford what seemed like a century ago.

It was like seeing an old friend; one you never thought you'd see ever again.

Then the Mustang's door opened, and an extremely attractive female stepped out. She was dressed in a way that would have made a supermodel jealous. Short, tight dress. High heels. Dramatic hair. Of all that had already happened to Donnie that day, this stunned him the most. He knew her, but he hadn't really thought about her, not until this moment. In fact, he'd almost forgotten just how goddamn beautiful she was.

It was April.

Suddenly, it wasn't so dark and dreary around the Hamato Motors building. But while Donnie had been expecting the car, he most certainly did not expect to see her.

They met just outside the broken door. She smelled as good as she looked—but Donnie had to stay cool.

"Thanks for the delivery," he told her. "And thank Mr. Bradford for me. We won't let him down."

Then Donnie called over his shoulder to Raph, "What do you think, big brother? First American car to win the De Leon?"

Raph laughed. "Well, that's your big plan, isn't it, little brother? That's why Bradford loaned you his car." Donnie held out his hand, expecting April to pass him the keys. But she didn't.

"You don't even have an invite to the De Leon," she said to him sternly, "It's by very special invitation only, you know."

"I'll get an invite," Donnie told her confidently. "Believe me, Vinyl is going to want this car in the race."

"But no one even knows where the race is going to be," April said. "At least until you get the invite. So exactly where would you be racing off to?"

Donnie looked back over at Raph, who smirked. "Should I tell her?" Raph asked him.

"Be my guest," Donnie replied.

"On the down low," Raph said to April in a sort of conspiratorial whisper, "we've been doing some spying over the past couple months, and we know the De Leon will be in California this year. We just don't know where. But we know one of the drivers, and—"

"Raph!" Donnie half-yelled at him. "Loose lips . . ." Raph got the hint. He shut up in mid-sentence.

April just shook her head at the two of them. She was trying not to laugh.

"I admire your sense of adventure," she said. "I have an older sister who suffers the same thing."

"And your point is?" Donnie asked her.

"California's a big state," she replied. "And you might remember my affinity for numbers? I'm math gal."

"And what's your math saying?" Donnie asked her.

She smiled again. God, he loved that smile. "The drivers' meeting is always the night before the race," she said. "So you have less than forty-five hours to get from New York to somewhere in California . . ."

"That's right," Donnie said. "So?"

Again, all she could do was shake her head at him.

"Let me see if I've got this right," she said. "Not only will you be violating your parole by leaving the state of New York, you're planning on driving for two days straight?"

Donnie nodded simply. "And your problem with that is?"

"Just that we better get going," she replied, surprising him. "It's actually forty-five hours and counting."

Donnie held his hands up.

"Whoa," he said. "You're not going anywhere. That's not part of the plan." She didn't back down for an instant.

"You need a right-seater," she told him. "And, more important, Bradford is not leaving this car in the hands of an ex-con."

But Donnie was having none of it.

"No way," he said, shaking his head. "It's out of the question. First of all, I don't need you, and second, it's on me to fix this car if I damage it."

"And it's on me to keep you honest," she shot right back at him. "Now, there's forty-four hours and fifty-nine minutes left. So, let's go."

With that, April got back into the car and slammed the door shut. Donnie was flustered. He looked at Raph pleadingly. But Raph didn't know what to do.

"Maybe we can shake her at a fuel stop?" Donnie half whispered to him.

"Okay, no worries, D," Raph replied under his breath. "I'll help you dump her. But she's right —we're already behind. So let's deal with it on the fly. I mean, at least she seems smart."

Donnie was still shaking his head, though. "I know she's smart," he said. "And also really, _really_ gorgeous. But I just don't think I can't take it. All the . . . the . . ." Donnie used his hand to imitate a puppet chattering on endlessly.

Raph imitated the hand-puppet idea, saying, "You want me to dump her, boss? Yes, please. Then follow me, I will take you on the ride from hell. She will be begging to get out of that car. Word to the moms. Word to the moms."

Raph smacked Donnie on the back and walked away. Donnie thought over the insult for a moment. Then he climbed into the driver's side of the Mustang. He felt a ripple of electricity shoot throug him. This car; this beautiful car. He never really thought he'd ever see it again, never mind be back behind the wheel. But here he was. Sometimes prayers are answered.

He looked at April—she was smiling broadly back at him. He couldn't help it—he smiled, too, briefly.

Then he started the Mustang's massive engine, revving it twice, and off they went.


	10. Chapter 10

The super Mustang crossed the George Washington Bridge less than twenty minutes later.

What was usually a forty-five-minute drive down from Mount Kisco to Manhattan had been done in half that time by the awesome Shelby GT.

Donnie was settled in behind the wheel, still buzzing with the twin excitements of driving this car again and being out of the clink. The Mustang had not lost any of its power or its balls. He was casually blowing by any slower traffic he encountered, which was actually all of it. Or, if anything posed any kind of impediment to him, he simply cut around it.

This was literally life in the fast lane. He'd averaged 120 mph since leaving Mount Kisco, and hit 130 as soon as they crossed the border into New Jersey.

He'd had little conversation with April so far, mostly because she'd been too busy holding on for dear life. But once they'd reached the New Jersey Turnpike, Donnie finally turned to her and said, "Okay, so you've never been a right-seater before."

She gave him a quick, icy glare.

"Don't worry," she replied over the roar of the Mustang's mighty engine. "I'll learn. And if you see something I'm doing wrong, please just point it out."

Donnie laughed. "Well, for one thing, you're wearing high heels," he said. She just shook her head.

"We call them 'heels' these days," she said. "And I have a change of shoes in my overnight bag."

"Then I suggest you do something about that," Donnie said.

April reached into her overnight bag, retrieved some more sensible shoes, and changed them with the heels.

"There," she said. "Anything else 'right-seaters' are meant to do?"

Donnie replied tartly, "Not to be rude, but how about 'be quiet'?"

April continued glaring at him. "Like a mouse, you mean?"

"Yeah, like a dead mouse," Donnie said.

She began to say something, but stopped. He stared straight ahead, knowing that one might have cut a little too deep.

A chilly silence enveloped the car, and it stayed that way for a long time.

* * *

High above the New Jersey Turnpike, a Cessna Skyhawk was cruising at 130 mph, closely following the same direction of the highway as it headed south.

Raph was at the plane's controls. He clicked his microphone on.

"Einstein," he said. "This is Maverick. I've just found you. And you've got a situation a mile ahead."

"Roger that," Donnie replied via the Mustang's two-way radio. "Copy a situation one mile ahead." He pushed up to another gear and exploded down the highway. He was soon traveling at 140 mph. "We've got bad traffic up ahead," he said to April, finally breaking the silence. "We've got to reroute."

She was mystified. "But I don't see any traffic," she said, sitting up in her seat and trying to see the road up ahead.

"We don't," Donnie said, pointing skyward. "But Raph does. He can see everything—he's our spy in the sky. And I've got to listen to him. Hold on . . ."

The two-way radio crackled again. "Stop and go traffic ahead," Raph reported. "I'm looking for an exit for you."

April was puzzled.

"You're going to hit traffic on this trip," she said matter-of-factly. "Every city has traffic. Won't that be a big problem?"

"Under the best conditions, we need to average just over 80 miles an hour to get to Cali in time," Donnie told her. "But for every hour we lose, we'll need to go 160 miles an hour to make it up. So yes, there will be traffic. It's just up to us to avoid it as much as possible."

Raph's voice came back on the radio.

"Give me a dollar on the next exit," he told Donnie.

"What's a dollar?" April asked.

Donnie smiled. "You'll see," he said.

He quickly upshifted, and a moment later, the Mustang was screaming down the breakdown lane, heading toward an off-ramp. At just the right moment, Donnie hit the brakes, drifted to the right, and took the exit going 100 mph—aka "a dollar."

April's education on the monetary term came with a price. With one hand holding tightly to the dash, the other tightly to the door, she turned a little green at the sudden, violent deceleration and then acceleration.

The Mustang rocketed up the off-ramp.

Raph's voice came back again. "Okay, go hard right for lane three in three . . . two . . . one . . ." This sounded like Greek to April, too, but she was quickly realizing that Donnie and Raph were using a precise shorthand language to converse with each other.

Each lane of the highway was numbered one through four. All Benny had to do was say one of those numbers and Donnie would know immediately what lane would be freest of traffic or delay. What fascinated April the most, though, was how this language showed the tight bond between the two friends. Traveling in excess of 100 mph Donnie would switch lanes totally on blind faith.

It was crazy, but admirable, too.

At the end of the off-ramp, Donnie burned through the intersection and turned right onto a three-lane, one-way street.

Raph's voice crackled over the radio again: "We need to get you clean," he told Donnie. "Hard left U in three . . . two . . . one . . ."

Donnie steered the Mustang violently to the left, executing a perfect 180-degree turn. He suddenly rocketed into a car wash.

Raph kept talking. "Soft right through the full service bay and then go hard right."

The Mustang roared out of the car wash and turned right. Suddenly they were going straight into the oncoming traffic.

Raph yelled, "Go, three . . . now!"

With a flick of his wrist, Donnie zipped the Mustang into the slow lane of the oncoming traffic. They were heading toward a merging intersection. Those cars coming in the opposite direction that saw the Mustang speeding toward them immediately stopped or got out of the way. For his part, Donnie weaved around them with remarkable skill.

April was trying desperately to maintain a poker face throughout all this harrowing maneuvering. But it was hard to do. Everything was going by so fast.

Suddenly the rear of a stopped SUV was looming large in the Mustang's windshield.

"You do see the SUV you're about to plow into, right?" she asked Donnie as calmly as possible.

Instantly, Donnie jerked the Mustang into an oncoming lane, just missing the back of the SUV. "You mean that SUV?" he asked her with a smirk. "The white one?"

That crisis passed—but another immediately took its place. A large commuter bus was heading right at them.

"Maintain speed," Raph calmly advised from above, even though that speed was 100 mph on a very crowded street.

The bus flashed its lights madly as the driver went into a sudden full-blown panic. The Mustang was heading right at it, now topping 105 mph.

"And the bus?" April asked Donnie urgently. "You see that, don't you?"

"What's that?" he replied.

"The bus . . ." she repeated urgently, her voice rising in tone.

"The what?" Donnie asked again.

April finally lost it.

" ** _THE BUS!_** " she yelled. " _ **THE BUS! THE BUS!**_ "

She braced for impact—but Donnie maintained his cool. The front of the bus filled the windshield. The driver blew his horn again. April screamed loudly, almost drowning out everything else.

Then, from above, came Raph's voice: "Go, two, now!"

Donnie swerved right, missing a head-on collision with the oncoming bus by inches. And suddenly that crisis had passed as well.

April took a deep breath and tried hard to regain her composure. Donnie glanced over at her. "You mean that bus, bus, bus?" he asked her.

But April refused to take the bait. She put her poker face back on and just stared straight ahead. Then, from Raph again: "Hard left in three . . ."

Donnie downshifted, resulting in a violent deceleration. At the same moment, April's cell phone began ringing. But it was somewhere behind the front seat. She undid her seat belt, turned around, knelt on the seat, and began searching for it.

It was ringing urgently, yet she couldn't find it. "Shit—where is it?" she cursed.

From Raph: ". . . two . . . one . . . now!"

The Mustang went across three lanes of traffic in less than three seconds, blowing through a red light for good measure.

"Give me a dollar for a quarter," Raph then requested from on high.

Leaving the traffic behind, the Mustang went back to accelerating. It was soon tearing down a one-lane rural road.

But April was still upset.

"You and Raph have this cheeky language," she said, still facing backward and kneeling on the seat. "You think it's adorable, do you? Well, it's not! If I'm gonna help you, I need to know what the _FUCK YOU TWO ASSHOLES ARE SAYING!_ "

She launched into a near-perfect imitation of Raph's strong, upstate New York accent.

"Gimme a dollar!" she said. "Roger that! Soft right! Three, two, one! You need to speak English, Donatello."

But at that moment, still traveling at 110 mph, the Mustang hit a huge speed bump. The supercar went airborne, all four tires leaving the ground. April went airborne as well, ass over teakettle, landing in a heap on the front-seat floor.

Donnie couldn't resist. He called up to Raph and asked, "Are you having fun up there yet?"

"Roy Rogers," was Raph's reply. "Hard left in ten . . ."

Just as April was crawling back into her seat, Donnie downshifted and slid through the upcoming intersection. Amid a gaggle of traffic, he also managed to turn a hard left.

Raph radioed down: "On-ramp in three . . . two . . . one . . ." Donnie hit the ramp, topping 112 mph.

The radio crackled again. "Okay, Einstein," Raph said finally. "You're all clear from here." April's eyes were firing daggers at Donnie by this point. But he stayed quiet, as if nothing unusual had happened.

"I understand that driving fast is going to be necessary," she half-yelled at him. "But driving like some maniac just to scare me out of the car isn't going to work."

"Are you sure about that?" Donnie asked her.

"Well, if that's what you thought," she said to him angrily, "then, whatever you think of me, I'm sure it's wrong."

Donnie just stared straight ahead. "Then educate me," he finally told her. And so she did.

"So you think," she began, "that just because I make a living buying cars designed to triple the speed limit, and drive a Maserati—and oh, by the way, I am an awesome driver—that you can condescend to me? If you think that, then I guarantee you, this will be the longest forty-four hours and eleven minutes of your life."

Donnie almost laughed at her. He'd spent many months in solitary confinement. He knew well what a "long" forty-four hours could feel like.

But then he thought about it a moment, and finally said, "One request? You talk less."

"I know," she replied. "Like a dead mouse?"

She put on a high, mouse-like voice and continued, "Squeak, squeak—here I am. I'm a mouse— I'm dying. I'm dead. I'm a dead mouse and I'm not talking now. Right? Like that?"

Donnie couldn't help it. He smiled a bit. _She is very cute_ , he thought.

Now that the atmosphere inside the Mustang was eased a bit, Donnie laid on the gas and headed for the western horizon, still traveling in excess of a dollar.


	11. Chapter 11

The restaurant was one of the most expensive in the country.

In one corner, at the best table in the place, were Sid, Angel, and a man and wife. The man was a multimillionaire and, even better for Sid, he was an investor. This meant he was a mark for Sid. A person from whom he could siphon money. A sucker.

That was the underlying reason for the dinner. Doing her part as Sid's arm candy was Angel, who looked stunning.

"Believe me," the investor was telling Sid, "I'm not trying to be an asshole."

"You don't have to try that hard," his wife interjected in a perfect deadpan, sipping her drink. "It's just that the idea of a woman called 'Vinyl Scratch,'" the investor went on, a bit uncertain, "and that she hosts a secret race and all? Well, it's just a bit hard to believe."

Sid nodded sympathetically. "She's supposedly from a blue-blood, wealthy family," he said. "Real old money. People who made their fortunes during the industrial revolution."

"And no one knows who she is?" the investor asked.

Sid shook his head.

"No one," he said.

"Well, Sid does," Angel said, suddenly interrupting.

Sid looked at her. He was both surprised and amused.

"Oh, I do?" he asked.

"It's just a feeling I get," she said.

"Are you calling me a liar?" Sid asked her.

"Sometimes I think you're not telling the whole story," she replied.

Sid waved her quiet, then turned back to his dinner companions.

"Vinyl has sponsored Formula 1 race teams," Sid told them. "Always under other names. But that I know about her for sure."

"Really an underground type," the man's wife said.

"With bad ears," Sid said. "Word is, she used to drive in big races on occasion, but the major thing she would do was DJ. She was on of the best until one night she lost her hearing. It eventually came back, but her drums could pop with the slightest 'bang' at any moment, so she quit the business."

Sid knew the mark was warming up, though it might have been the alcohol.

"I'd love to see her podcast," he said.

"Vinyl's site is private," Angel told him. "It's by invite only."

Sid took a long swig of his scotch. _Wonder when she'll shut the hell up,_ he thought.

"What's the prize for this De Leon?" the mark asked.

"Big rewards come with big risks," Sid answered. "Any car that's in the race and loses automatically belongs to the winner. I won it last year and left with more than six million dollars in cars. And one of them was a new Pagani."

"Sounds like a good day's work," the man said with a laugh.

"Yes, it was," Sid replied, turning mock serious. "But listen, I'm not trying to push you— however, I've got another interested party. Now, I'm not a hundred percent sure about them. You know that feeling?"

"I know it well," the mark replied. "And I liked what I saw at your garage. That's quite a dealership you've got going there. The problem I have is you haven't shown a hard profit yet, at least not in cash."

Sid shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Frustration was starting to show around the edges of his face.

"Let me be blunt," he said. "What do I have to do to get a real commitment from you?"

"I'll be blunt right back," the investor replied. "What do you consider a 'real commitment'?"

"Five million," Sid said. "With that kind of money, we can be one of the biggest high-end car dealerships in the country."

"Win this 'secret' De Leon again, then," the investor said.

"You mean, when I win this year's De Leon," Sid said, "you're in for five million?"

The man reached over the table and shook Sid's hand. "If you win, yes. I am," he said.

"Can I get that in writing?" Sid asked him.

"Just send me a contract," the man replied.

The couple was gone a few minutes later. Once they were out of sight, Sid collapsed back into his chair. He sucked down what was left of his scotch and then tossed the glass back on the table.

"I need that guy," he said worriedly. "I need that deal." Angel was surprised to hear this.

"What do you mean?" she asked him. "You told me your dealership made a big profit last year."

"It's paper profit," Sid told her dismissively. "I need some fresh cash to survive."

He looked away from her, his features turning dark. Angel continued staring at him, though. At that point, she really didn't know what to think.

* * *

Night had fallen on Ohio.

The Shelby Mustang roared down the highway, relentlessly heading west, traveling more than twice the speed of those few cars and trucks sharing the dark road with it.

Donnie was driving in silence—at 120 mph. April was asleep. It was almost midnight. He punched a number into his iPhone.

Casey's voice came on immediately. "Checking in," he said. "Mile marker four seventeen," Donnie replied. "We're on schedule."

Casey was driving alone in a vehicle they all called the Beast. It was the team's support truck. Big and boxy, it looked like a combination tow truck and delivery van. It was full of spare tires, parts, water, batteries, oil, and transmission fluid—everything they might need during the high-speed cross-country dash. But it also carried the most important thing of all: fuel.

"It's a miracle that we're still on schedule," Casey told Donnie. "Maybe we have an outside chance of actually pulling this thing off. I was just sitting here thinking, 'Mikey would have loved this trip.'"

The words hit Donnie right in the gut. "Yeah," he replied sadly. "He loved the impossible."

"Sid should be in jail for what he did to Mikey that day," Casey said.

"I'll never forget what I saw when I found him," Donnie replied. "I still have nightmares about it . . ."

"He wrecked him, Don," Casey went on. "He picked him and flipped him. Let me ask you . . . what if you get behind Sid's back bumper? What if you end up back there in the race? What will you do?"

Donnie thought deeply about what Casey was asking him—and not for the first time. But he didn't reply. His silence said it all.

"That's what I thought," Casey said. "See you in Detroit. Beast out."

Still mulling over his conversation with Casey, Donnie glanced at April. He expected to find her still sleeping.

But he got a surprise. She was wide awake and looking right at him.

"I'm sorry about Mikey," she told him. "I only met him those two times. Remember? At the exhibit hall in Manhattan and then the next day at the Shepperton Racetrack. But I could tell what kind of person he was just by his smile. He reminded me of my sister. Always in motion. Always smiling—a real pest. But I love her to death."

"Sid just left him there," Donnie said angrily. "That's what I can't forgive. The trial, the prison, everything that happened. None of that would even matter to me if Mikey were still alive. I realize what we do isn't pretty, but there is one unwritten rule: You always go back."

"That's what this is really all about?" April asked him. "To somehow avenge Mikey's death?"

Donnie didn't reply. He didn't want to. He just fixed his gaze back on the road and kept on driving.


	12. Chapter 12

It was Friday **,** nearly 8:00 a.m., and heavy morning traffic was clogging the streets of downtown Detroit, as usual.

Inside one of the many buildings in the downtown area, one office was particularly busy. Phones were ringing, mail was being delivered to people working in endless rows of cubicles. This fourth-floor office was full of hustle and bustle.

Leo was sitting in one of these cubicles, feeling not unlike a rat in a maze. He was dressed in business attire, a far cry from his grease-monkey days back at Hamato Motors.

His iPhone suddenly rang. He looked at the caller's number, shook his head, and let it go to voice mail. But then the iPhone rang again. This time, he picked it up.

It was Casey.

"We've already had this conversation," Leo told him plainly.

"Just go to the window," Casey replied.

"No," Leo said. "Why would I do that?"

"Just go, and quit being a bitch." Casey insisted.

Leo just shook his head again. Then he got up and walked to the window.

He looked down to the street below and was surprised to see the Shelby Mustang idling loudly on the curb right outside his office building. Even in a place called Motor City, the car stood out, a stark contrast to the fuel-efficient, home-by-five cars making up most of the morning rush hour around it.

The Mustang's engine started to rev higher. It was incredibly loud—so much so, it could be heard four stories up. Half the people in Leo's office immediately rushed to the windows to see what was making the racket.

Down inside the supercar, April was mystified, as always.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked Donnie as he continued revving the engine with earsplitting results.

"Just keeping the engine hot," he replied.

She looked around them—the crowded streets, the crowded sidewalks. Everyone was looking at them.

"Do you really want to be attracting so much attention?" she asked him. "You are on the run from the law, you know."

Donnie didn't reply. He just smiled mischievously.

A moment later a Detroit police cruiser pulled up next to the Mustang. The officer inside rolled down his window and yelled over to Donnie. "This your car, son?" the officer asked.

"What, are you crazy?" Donnie yelled back to him. "This is a one-of-a-kind car! Do you know how expensive it is!?"

The cop straightened up in his seat. He didn't need this so early in the morning. He immediately tagged Donnie as being a problem.

"Why don't you pull it around the corner," he told Donnie. "We can have a talk."

But Donnie ignored his request.

Instead he yelled back. "Did you see how fast I was going!?" he asked the cop. "It was like 190 on that off-ramp back there! It was insane! You gotta drive this car!"

While all this was happening, Donnie was secretly taping himself and April on his iPad connected to the dash. "I'm sorry, officer," April yelled over to the cop. "I think my boyfriend is just showing off to impress me."

The cop was growing increasingly exasperated. "Just pull it around the corner," he yelled back. Donnie rolled up the window.

"'Boyfriend'?" he said to April.

"I'm just trying to keep us out of jail," she replied seriously.

"If it's getting too hot for you," he told her, "you should probably get out now."

"Are you kidding?" she exclaimed. "This is my car!"

"It's _Bradford's_ car," Donnie corrected her. "And, by the way, you may want to fix your hair."

"For what, my mug shot?" she asked.

Donnie tapped the iPad, switching the POV to film what was happening through the windshield. "No," he finally replied. "But I _am_ about to make you famous."

Leo was watching all this from his fourth-floor office window, wondering what the hell was going on. It was almost magical to see the Shelby Mustang again. And he had no doubt who was behind the wheel—but what was Donnie up to? Casey was still on the phone with him.

"That's not exactly the part I wanted you to see," Casey told him. "But just watch how the car leans when it pulls away from the cop."

Not a moment later the Mustang screamed away from the curb. It took off with so much force, it was going sideways. There was a storm of smoke and dust—and lots of earsplitting DBs.

The lights on top of the police car came to life. With siren wailing, it was instantly off in pursuit of the Mustang.

And suddenly, Leo was enjoying the little drama four stories below.

"Wow, that Mustang is loose, man," he said to Casey. He was seeing what the Shelby could do for the first time.

"I know," Casey replied. "And if Donnie runs that setup at De Leon, well—"

"He's in the race, you mean?" Leo interrupted.

"He's about to be," Casey replied, a little mysteriously.

"What the hell does that mean?" Leo wanted to know.

"It means he's about to be," Casey said again.

Leo's phone clicked. "Gotta go," he told Casey. "Donnie's calling."

Leo clicked over to answer Donnie's call. While Donnie was, at that moment, driving the Mustang around in a loud, noisy circle, cop car behind him, siren screaming, trying to chase him, he was still somehow able to talk.

"I need you, man," Donnie yelled to Leo over all the commotion.

But Leo stayed silent as he watched the cop car chase the Mustang round and round.

Donnie continued. "Leo . . . brother?" he said. "I know you're there . . . Okay, I'll do the talking. I get why you left. It got nuts. It got nuts for all of us. But right now we're doing something really stupid, and we really need you. It's not Hamato Motors without you."

Leo took a deep breath and thought long and hard about what Donnie was telling him.

Finally, he hung up the phone and said to himself, "This is a big mistake . . ."

Then he walked to the elevator, pushed the down button—and began taking off his clothes.

People in the cubicles nearby stood to watch him. First Leo removed his shirt and folded it neatly, revealing his bony, bare chest. More people in his office took notice. Then he took off his pants and folded them along with the shirt. Then came the boxers—and just like that, except for his socks, Leo was naked.

He waited calmly for the elevator. It arrived with a loud _ding!_

That's when he turned back to his coworkers and said, "Have a nice day, you miserable assholes."

The door elevator opened to reveal the car was crowded. Somehow, Leo managed to squeeze in. The passengers were horrified, but no one said a word. Leo found himself standing next to an older, smaller woman.

"My little brother is running the fastest Mustang in the world at the De Leon race on Sunday," he told her.

The woman smiled at him and said, "I'm in accounting."

"But don't you feel like you're dying inside?" Leo asked her.

She didn't stop smiling. "Yes," she replied. "Yes, I do."

She glanced down at his nether regions and frowned. A frightened turtle came to mind. Leo was immediately defensive.

"Hey, it's cold in here," he said.

A moment later, the elevator door opened into the lobby. Casey was waiting there. He saw Leo walk out of the elevator, nude except for his socks.

Casey couldn't believe it. "No fuckin' way!" he exclaimed.

"Where's the Beast?" Leo asked him nonchalantly.

"On the street," Casey replied. "C'mon, we gotta roll."

Casey hustled Leo through the lobby. Many eyes were falling on them—though mostly on Leo. One woman took out her phone and made a hasty call. A guy in a suit applauded and one woman started snapping pictures.

"Why did you nude it up?" Casey asked his friend.

Leo just shrugged. "I figured if I got balls-out naked in front of all my coworkers, I'd be too embarrassed to ever go back."

"So, you just left your clothes up there?" Casey asked him.

"Yeah," Leo replied. "Along with my dignity."

Meanwhile, Donnie was driving very hard and fast and no longer going around in circles.

He was screaming through the crowded streets of Detroit, making a lot of noise and getting a lot of attention. Luckily he was at his best in these kinds of situations. Checking mirrors. Effortlessly shifting up and down. Laying on the gas, using the brakes only when absolutely necessary.

A second police car had joined the chase. But this only added to the excitement. Then came some positive news from Casey.

"I've got the package," Donnie heard Casey say over the iPhone. "And we're out the back door."

"That's great news!" Donnie replied. "But we've only got twenty-eight hours to get to Cali."

That's when April spotted something above them. It was a helicopter with "WLTV Channel 4" emblazoned on its side. It went right over the top of the speeding Mustang.

"I'm afraid we've got company," she said.

Donnie's phone rang an instant later. He answered it to hear an unexpected, but familiar, voice. "WLTV Channel 4 News with a question for Hamato Donatello," the voice crackled. "On a scale of one to ten, how crazy hot is your passenger?"

Donnie and April looked over at the helicopter, which was now flying almost level with the Mustang.

To their surprise, they saw Raph saluting them from the cockpit. "Like my new ride?" Raph asked. "Bitchin', right?"

Donnie couldn't believe it—and neither could April. "What happened to the Cessna?" Donnie asked him.

"They have flight restrictions over the city, bro," Raph replied. "So I had to borrow my buddy's little whirly bird."

Donnie expertly drifted the Mustang into a right-hand turn and zoomed into an alleyway. The cops were still right on his tail, lights flashing, sirens blaring, but they knew they had their hands full with a driver like him.

So their plan was to trap him. One cop car followed him into the alley, while the other entered from the opposite end. Donnie immediately slammed on the brakes and began backing up.

"Oh boy," Donnie said, flooring the Mustang in reverse. "This might get interesting."

Meanwhile, Leo was inside the Beast pulling on some of Casey's extra clothes. Suddenly Raph's voice came blasting through the supply truck's two-way radio.

"Ok, listen up, guys," Raph began. "I almost borrowed an Apache chopper from the Great Lakes Air Base—but Colonel Gatins was sweating me hard."

Casey just rolled his eyes. "Here we go again," he said.

Leo yelled into the microphone. "Enough with the Apache helicopter bullshit. Give it a fucking rest!"

"I'm not talking to you, Lame-anardo ," Raph yelled back.

"Roger that, Liar One," Leo retorted.

Raph's voice went up a notch. "Man, you've been back in the crew for ten minutes and you're already up my ass, talking shit," the pilot scolded him. "You're going to rue the day you started calling me that."

Leo laughed. "'Rue the day'?" he asked. "What, did you go to college all of a sudden?"

"Wow, Leo. That is an ignorant thing to say," Raph shot back. "Man, you are ignorant!"

Donnie and April were listening to the chatter between the crewmates, all while the Mustang was furiously going down the alley—in reverse.

April couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Are you kidding me?" she said to Donnie. "Are these guys still in elementary school?"

Donnie smiled as he finally backed out of the alley at 70 mph and headed up another street—in the wrong direction, of course.

"Is it going to be like this the whole way?" April asked him.

Donnie just shrugged as he upshifted and laid on the accelerator. "It's been like this since we were teenagers," he told her.

"That's a 'yes,' then," she huffed.

Raph's voice interrupted them.

"Einstein —this is Maverick," he began. "The Motown Mounties really want to speak with you. Come back."

Donnie was maneuvering fiercely now, swerving around the oncoming traffic, while noticing that a third police cruiser had joined the chase. Just as he was about to hit one civilian car head-on, he downshifted and hit the brakes and the gas, all at the same time. The result was a perfect reverse 270-degree turn.

When the smoke cleared, he found himself facing the right way down Michigan Avenue. He laid down the hammer again, taking off like a rocket. This caused the first cruiser to collide with the second one, putting both out of action. The third one, though, kept up the pursuit.

Donnie did another hard drift and wound up in the city's waterfront district. He was now topping 100 mph, but the third police car was gaining on him.

Up in the news copter, Raph heard another voice come on his radio. It was distinctly female. "Romeo, stand by," it said.

"Standing by," Raph said, with some uncertainty.

He had moved the copter's traffic cam off the roadways and onto a hot-looking female running along the waterfront park. Just for kicks, he zoomed in.

As it turned out, the strange voice was coming from the Channel 4 newsroom.

He heard it again. It said: "We go live to Romeo in the Channel 4 traffic chopper. How are we looking, Romeo?"

Raph replied in a typical TV announcer voice. "We're looking good, Beth," he said. "Real good."

But then a producer's voice interrupted, "Is that Romeo in that helicopter? What's going on?" At that moment, the copter cam pulled into an extremely tight shot of the jogger's derriere. Immediately, the producer started screaming, "Commercial! Go to a commercial!"

Raph just laughed.

"Hey, Motown, gotta lighten up," he said.

As all this was going on, Donnie found himself hurtling toward a huge bridge. "Eyes on the road," he told himself aloud.

Raph saw the long span at the same time.

"Whoa, I think that's the Ambassador Bridge," he yelled. "And it's filled with the bumper-to-bumper."

He pulled back on the copter's controls, putting the machine into a near-hover.

"Donnie, brother," he called down to the Mustang. "It's going to take a three-lane grasshopper to disappear. Do you copy?"

Donnie was quick to reply: "Copy."

"Okay," Donnie said. "On my count, then . . . three . . . two . . . one . . ."

The Mustang hit the I-375 on-ramp at tremendous speed. This despite lots of traffic everywhere— and a cop car, siren wailing, right behind it.

April took her usual crash position, and braced for impact. "What's a grasshopper?" she yelled over at Donnie.

Donnie did not have time to answer. He jerked the speeding car into the on-ramp's fast lane. Up ahead, but getting closer very quickly, there was a huge embankment just before the entrance to the bridge itself.

"You might want to close your eyes," Donnie warned her. April held on tighter, if that was possible.

"Oh my god," she screamed. "Is it worse than 'bus bus bus'?!"

Raph's voice came over the radio. "Aim for that light pole," he told Donnie. "Then spread your wings . . ."

At those words, Donnie jerked the car out of the fast lane and up the embankment toward the light pole. He put the gas pedal to the floor . . . and suddenly, they were airborne.

April's eyes nearly fell out of her head. They were flying over three lanes of traffic, the Mustang's tires nearly clipping the roofs of the cars below. But before she had a chance to scream again or say anything else, they were suddenly back down, landing with a resounding _thump!_ on the slope of a church parking lot. Without missing a beat, Donnie drifted violently across the grass, across the lot, and onto another street.

He straightened out the Mustang and downshifted for more RPMs.

Then he turned to look at April, expecting her to be in a state of shock or worse. But she was completely opposite of how Donnie thought she'd be.

She wasn't hurt or stunned or nauseous. Instead, she was laughing hysterically. "We're _alive_!" she screamed with pure joy. "Amazing! You are _amazing_!"

Donnie almost started laughing himself—her laugh was sweet and funny and nearly contagious. "It's what I do," he said in a perfect deadpan.

The Mustang roared down the street at an extremely high speed, heading away from Motor City. High above, Raph had been looking down on the display of incredible extreme driving and admiring Donnie's out-of-this-world talent. But now he had to go.

"Time's up in this bird," he radioed down to Donnie. "Talk soon, bro." But Detroit wasn't giving up so easily.

One of the pursuing cops was especially pissed off. His patrol car had been involved in the accident that Donnie's wild driving had caused, and that made him mad.

He was now burning up his radio.

"All units be advised," the cop said. "Heavily modified silver Ford Mustang last seen on I-375 heading westbound. Contact state police for air support."


End file.
